Sleeping Sickness and Things that Bite
by skag trendy
Summary: Dean decides Christmas at the beach is the perfect opportunity for Sam to recover from a terrible curse. Unfortunately, the break turns out to be anything but restful. AU set somewhere in season one, after Faith. Hurt Sam. Brotherly fighting and angst.
1. Chapter 1

**Sleeping Sickness and Things that Bite**

Dean decides Christmas at the beach is the perfect opportunity for Sam to recover from a terrible curse. Unfortunately, the break turns out to be anything but restful.

 **AU** set somewhere in season one, after Faith.

Hurt Sam. Brotherly fighting and angst.

 **Written especially for my usual readers and friends as a 'thank you'** for all your support during the last few years or so. You were all there for me during some seriously shitty times, including when I was seriously ill in hospital, and this story just doesn't seem like nearly enough.

But especially, much love and thanks to Neats for your wonderful friendship, and for the beta read. Your insight is always invaluable.

Warnings: Bad language, blood, violence, etc.

Note: Medical facts? What medical facts? All made up!

The location is also completely made up, as is the weather, etc. and I've messed with the timelines a bit. Couldn't find the time or motivation to do any research so it's all a load of nonsense straight out of my messed up head.

I admit outright that the plot is pretty crap. It's purely for the Hurt Sam value, so:

On with the farce…

 _ **SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

 **Chapter One**

"Sammy? We're here, dude."

Sam sighed but didn't otherwise stir.

Dean frowned and studied his sleeping brother. Sam was still pale, his cheeks sunken, dark smudges set in deep semi-circles under his eyes. The sickness had taken a lot out of him, and Dean couldn't help but worry that it wasn't over yet. Bobby's reassurance that Sam was now safe wasn't sitting too well, but maybe that was just Big Brother paranoia.

Perhaps Pastor Jim was right. The poor kid just needed to rest up for a few weeks, take it easy, kick back and chill. Christmas was on the way, would be the first the brothers had spent together in years, and it was the perfect opportunity to hide out in peace, quiet and safety.

Sammy would heal, if he was just given the time.

Well, no problem there, thought Dean. No more hunts, no more panicked phone calls, and no more mysterious text messages from their dad. A few strong words from Pastor Jim Murphy had apparently silenced the stubborn John Winchester for now, and it had been two weeks since the brothers had received any co-ordinates or orders.

Scrubbing a hand over his stubble, Dean blew out a breath and stared ahead. He didn't see the palms trees swaying gently in the sea breeze, or the ocean waves rolling lazily on the beach.

No. Instead, his mind's eye replayed Sam's face right before his sudden collapse.

Dean had wrongly assumed it was just pure weariness. Sam hadn't slept properly since Jess, he'd lost weight, and any time he did nod off, the poor kid was plagued with nightmares about the fire.

But he should have known. He should have guessed.

Pissing down rain and slippery mud had been a huge hindrance on that particular hunt, making it hard to see and even harder to hear over the noise. Such conditions made an already dangerous hunt all the more lethal.

The hunt had been successful, another salt and burn, same old, same old, blah, blah, blah. One dead Celtic warlock, a ten year old vengeance curse lifted, with extra onions on a sesame seed bun.

But the flames hadn't even died down before the brothers returned to round three of their heavy weight fight entitled "Stanford Sam".

And it ended abruptly as those terrible words left Dean's big, Grand Canyon sized mouth:

"Ya wanna know something, Sam?" he'd sneered and ignored the little voice at the back of his mind telling him to shut the fuck up.

"Not really," Sam had replied, jaw clenched tight, eyes blazing with anger. "But you're gonna tell me anyway, huh?"

"You're a fucking snob," and a tiny part of Dean had actually relished the way his brother's face lost all colour. "That's why you really left. We were beneath you, and you were too good for us. Ain't that the real truth?"

Sam had been shocked and hurt – in all honesty, Dean could see that now - and his eyes had immediately misted over right before they rolled back, and his body dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Dean reflected, with bitter hindsight, that Sam's suggestion of postponement until the apparent monsoon had passed hadn't been such a bad idea after all. But, at the time, the constant college arguments had turned his common sense around. Dean had refused to give in to the whimsy of bad weather, let alone a snot-nosed kid brother trying to use _reason_ of all things.

Dean paid the price too, of course. He had been forced to struggle with his kid brother's gigantic limp form, keeping his head clear of the rain soaked earth and holding him close, still convinced the culprit was physical and emotional exhaustion.

But the small, pagan looking dart buried in the kid's neck, just under his ear, told another, far more sinister story.

The warlock was dead, but the bastard had left a grim little gift in his wake. The dart had been anointed with a sleeping spell, but 'sleep' wasn't really the word for it. More like 'coma'. A real heavy _, supercharged_ coma.

Dean had lit on out of there like all the hounds of hell were after them, and headed straight for Bobby Singer's place.

It hadn't been easy, trying to find the counter spell to a curse that was thousands of years old and even predated the druids. Bobby and Dean had searched through every journal and grimoire at their disposal, been in touch with Pastor Jim and even sent word to John Winchester, begging for help.

Two weeks into their stay, Sam slept on while his body began to waste away at an alarming rate, never stirring, not a murmur nor a whimper.

It seemed that no amount of IV fluid was going to save the poor kid and Dean was fast approaching his wits end.

It was their father who came through for them. A package was delivered to the salvage yard via courier, with no return address. It was a tiny, ornate silver and glass phial of blue liquid, with only a small note attached in John's familiar scrawl.

" _Two sips a day, one in the morning, one at night. Keep talking to him; keep him sane."_

The reason for the ominous advice became apparent a few days later when Sam woke up and tried to scramble from his bed, only to drop heavily to the floor when his weakened limbs failed him. Eyes wild with fear, bordering on madness, Sam had shakily crawled away and tried to bury himself in the corner of the room, body shaking, tears streaming down his thin face.

Dean had gently coached the kid back to awareness, talking softly to him, inching closer and closer as Sam calmed down and became more approachable. Finally, he'd closed his arms around his little brother and rocked him slowly, crooning soft words of comfort and reassurance. This was a rarity, Dean had reflected at the time. Not since Sammy was knee high to a grasshopper had he snuggled up to his older brother like that. It was strangely worrying yet comforting at the same time.

Recovery took time. Way too much of it for Dean's happiness, truth be told. Felt like it was going on for-fucking-ever.

Day in, day out, and every night, Dean sat with Sam in the corner of the bedroom, holding him, watching the kid's eyes dart about, filled with terror and unseeing of the real world. Panic suffused the older brother more than once and it was only Bobby Singer's constant, familiar presence that kept Dean from slipping loose the threads of his own remaining sanity.

But Dean had a niggling little doubt in the back of his head, the kind that grows like a fungus and comes back to bite you on the ass if you don't pay attention.

Something was wrong with all this.

It couldn't have been _just_ a deep coma.

Eventually, that doubt was realised. Sam was coming back, bit by bit, day by day, but as reality crept into that searing, blue-green gaze, so did wariness and trouble.

Dean decided to ignore it for as long as possible while he tried to get Sam to eat, but he knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time.

More reality, more awareness pounded Sam's inner walls, until the kid was almost crushed by it. Fearing the worst, it was about this point that Dean began his campaign to get Sam to open up.

And so he braced himself.

Because when insanity meets reality there's bound to be conflict, and someone nearly always gets hurt in the crossfire.

That conflict became a blazing row when Sam told Dean to back off and leave him alone, followed by:

"Believe me, Dean, you don't _wanna_ know!" He'd lowered his head, tears rolling down his face, and mumbled: "I wish _I_ didn't know."

Breaking point finally reached, Dean resisted the urge to dance the victory dance, and merely grabbed Sam up in a fierce, tight hug. One he hoped would convey all the love he felt for the kid without ever having to say it.

"Don't you worry 'bout me," he'd whispered into Sam's ear, trying not to feel the wasted muscle and sharp bony edges sticking out of his brother's body. "Just… _talk_ , kiddo. Ok? Not for me. For _you._ "

Even then it wasn't immediate, but it did happen.

Once he was fully back in the real world, Sam came clean with great reluctance. Dean had stayed by his side morning and night, kept him from going crazy, soothed his nightmares, fed and watered them both.

Sam admitted he owed an explanation but Dean was in no way prepared for it.

Turned out, Sam hadn't slept at all in that time.

At least, not in the normal sense of the word.

The sleeping spell had kept Sam imprisoned in a state of perpetual fear, torturing him with primal, evil, bloody dreams of his loved ones dying, grisly rains of blood, visceral, tormented screams and agonised wailing.

Voices told him he was helpless, useless, couldn't save his brother, his father, his mother, Jess… _himself._

And didn't that just blast open one big fucking can of worms.

So, here they were, just weeks away from Christmas, at a beautiful old fashioned beach house on a private stretch of sand. Jim and Bobby had both invited the boys for Christmas, but Sam couldn't handle being around anyone other than his older sibling right then, and even that was a stretch for him sometimes.

Dean couldn't decide how he felt about a warm, sunny Christmas, surrounded by sand rather than snow, but figured it wouldn't do to look a gift horse in the pie hole. The place had been left to Pastor Jim by one of his more affluent parishioners some years ago, as one hell of a 'thank you' for his assistance with an ancestral ghost. The priest and long-time family friend had offered it to the Winchesters as an alternative to grungy motel rooms with bad, noisy neighbours, and Dean didn't want to appear ungrateful.

In any case, it was kind of perfect. Quiet and peaceful, the nearest neighbour around five miles away, no one was likely to disturb them here.

The house hadn't been used in some years, and required a little fixing up; nothing major just a few roof tiles in need of replacing, a lick of paint here and there. It was all on one level - no stairs for a sleepy Sammy to worry about – so every room was on the ground floor, including three bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, living room and library, all of decent size. There was also a small attic space in the sloped roof and a wine cellar in the basement.

All the windows were full length French windows with ornate handles, each opening out straight onto decking, which ran all the way around the house like a kind of beach veranda. The veranda itself wasn't in too bad condition but clearly needed treating before the salt, sea, wind and sand wore it away completely. A couple of wooden shutters hung crooked on their hinges here and there, possible storm damage Dean suspected.

The lawn and gardens were a little overgrown, but otherwise the place was pretty decent. Not one to sit idle for long when work needed doing, Dean's hands _itched_ for a hammer and nails and that surprised him. He had never once been inspired to renovate any of the dives and hovels the brothers had been forced to inhabit over the years while growing up but, in ways he couldn't even begin to define and ran deeper than just the surface aesthetics, this place was different.

Mind made up, Dean nodded slowly as his gaze swept over the place again, calculating and cataloguing each and every square metre. The brothers would be here for a while, into the start of the New Year at least…

There were some tools in the trunk, but he also knew from Pastor Jim that there was a garden shed somewhere on site worthy of investigation; there were bound to be more specialised tools available for use. He was more than ready to get started, needed the distraction of hard, physical labour, and once Sam was feeling stronger, more like himself, a few light duties wouldn't do him any harm either.

"Sammy," Dean softly called again, and gave his brother's shoulder a gentle shake.

He'd learned to be careful around Sam, not to spook him or startle him too much. Kid was still a lot freaked out by his ordeal and needed gentle handling.

"Hmmmwha?" Sam mumbled, and rolled his head along the seat back. Two slithers of blue-green peered wearily up at Dean from between half open lids.

Dean smiled and brushed a few strands of unruly hair out of Sam's dopey eyes.

"We're here, at the beach," he pointed out the windshield towards the house. "And there's a nice, warm bed in there with your name on it."

Sam blinked slowly and tried to sit up, but slouched sideways instead, head landing heavily on Dean's shoulder.

"Ssssounsgoooo…" he nodded off mid-sentence.

Even all grown up, Sammy could still be downright adorable. Dean suppressed a chuckle and gently manoeuvred the kid back into his own seat. It would be a little while yet before Sam was fully back with him; Bobby's homemade sleeping draft was hellish powerful, but it protected Sam from his nightmares, and made the journey all the more comfortable for him.

It pretty much ticked all the protective big brother boxes, as far as Dean was concerned.

But the drugs were slowly wearing off and the kid would soon be hungry, if the muffled growling in Sam's stomach was anything to go by. There were some nice, juicy steaks waiting for them up at the house, along with a sack of good baking potatoes. Pastor Jim had stopped by a couple of days ago to check the place was clean and tidy, change the sheets on the beds, and restock the fridge, freezer and cabinets.

Dean glanced at his brother again and sighed. "Guess I'm carrying your ass again, huh?"

Twenty minutes later, the steaks were soaking up a spicy Texan marinade on the kitchen worktop, and Dean was wrestling his brother into a pair of blue, striped PJs he'd found on one of the beds. They were clean, neatly folded, and most important of all a perfect fit for Sam's tall frame, if a little big around the waist and shoulders.

Sam sat on the edge of the master bed, gazing around the room with dazed eyes like a lost little boy, while Dean buttoned up his shirt.

"Where'r'we?" he mumbled a question. His wandering gaze stopped its travels and fixated on the wall behind his brother.

Dean patted him on the shoulder. "At the beach, Sammy. Remember I told you earlier?"

Sam blinked, slowly. "Uhuh."

Dean frowned slightly, and turned his head to see what Sam was staring at.

"Nice," he grimaced. "Someone liked a little sea fishing, huh?"

Evidently, the previous owner had enjoyed it _a lot._ There were hundreds of trophies lining the wall, none of which Dean could name but he recognised a large sword fish, a couple of giant sized crab claws, sea horses, and a big set of sharp looking teeth.

Dean was no expert on the marine environment, or indeed on any of its inhabitants for that matter, but he suspected the teeth came from a Great White. He'd seen Jaws enough times, after all, not to mention the crappy sequels. There was no mistaking it.

"Sure hope his dentist was paid well," he muttered, grinning at his brother, and finished fastening the top button on Sam's shirt. "Ain't enough money in the world to make me stick my hand inside that thing's mouth."

He sat back on his heels and worriedly studied Sam's face, as the kid now gazed with droopy-eyed fascination at the trophies. Sam looked pale and exhausted, but he also seemed morbidly curious about the wall of dead fish.

"S'kinda cool," he said, words still slurring. "Retro… or somethin'."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Pretty sure it's not," he held out his hands in supplication when Sam opened his mouth to protest. "But whatever. Each to his own, dude."

Sam's scowl made him look all of five years old but he didn't say anything more, just returned his attention to the fish wall.

"C'mon, let's get you comfortable," said Dean, and gently pushed Sam back onto his pillow. "Then you can stare at that thing all you want 'til you fall asleep."

The brothers had stayed in some pretty weird motel rooms over the years, but this was the weird to beat all _weird._

"Sammy, why the hell would someone put _that_ on their bedroom wall?" asked Dean, absently, while plumping the pillows behind Sam's head.

"Dunno."

"The Man from Atlantis, maybe," Dean pondered, and noticed the small twitch of Sam's mouth. "Or… _I_ know! Could this place once have been Flipper's beach house?"

"Jerk," Sam said, snorting softly.

"Bitch." Dean ruffled his hair, relieved to see his kid brother smiling again, even if only a little.

Sam let Dean pull his legs up onto the bed, and then cover him in the soft sheets and blankets.

"You get some sleep," said Dean. He moved across the room and drew the curtains closed. "I'll come get you when dinner's ready."

"'Kay."

By the time Dean turned back around, Sam was out, snoring lightly, the side of his face mashed into the pillow, hair flopped over his forehead.

"Sleep well, little brother," Dean whispered, fondly, as he pulled the bedroom door to.

Out of habit, he left it open just a crack in case Sam needed him, but he hoped the kid would sleep right through 'til dinner.

He spent the next few hours pottering about the kitchen, sipping beer, baking potatoes, grating cheese and preparing homemade ketchup. Then, after one last quick check on his sleeping brother, he took a stroll in the gardens; keeping one ear open for Sam and trouble in general (the two weren't mutually exclusive, after all). He breathed in the pleasant scent of sea salt and tropical flowers, and smiled. The beach was literally a hop over a little stone wall, and Dean's bare feet sank into soft, golden sand. This was as far as he was prepared to go for now, at least until Sam was feeling more himself, but he stood staring out to sea and listening to the waves crashing gently on the beach.

A wonderful sense of calm stole over him, carrying with it a sedative effect, almost dulling his senses.

 _Ya know somethin'? I could happily live here forever._

Almost.

Dean turned sharply, frowning. "Is someone there?"

 _If that's what you want, then that's what we'll do._

Soft, childish laughter echoed around him and faded away, followed by the tinkling of what sounded like sleigh bells.

"Oh for fuck sake!" Dean hung his head, despondent and pissed.

Of course they weren't going to catch a break. They were Winchesters, and Winchesters just didn't get that lucky.

He pulled out his cell phone and gloomily punched a few keys.

"Hey, Pastor Jim," said Dean, trying but failing to keep all trace of sarcasm at bay. "Yeah, Sammy's fine. No, we're both ok. Listen, did your 'friend' happen to mention any, ya know, _ghosts_ around here?" His smile was strained. "Really? That's strange. 'Cos I could swear I just heard one."

More giggling, light and cheerful, came from behind him, along with those damn bells again, and he whirled around just in time to see his younger brother stumbling onto the beach, heading for the shoreline.

"Sammy? Sam!" Dean broke into a run, ignoring the tinny, frantic shouts of Pastor Jim coming through his cell phone as he tossed it carelessly onto the sand.

Sam didn't seem to hear, kept on putting one foot in front of the other, and didn't stop even when he hit the water's edge. He carried on moving, wading onwards, the water line rising up and soaking his PJs inch by inch, until his chest was completely covered. By the time Dean made it out to the waterline, Sam was fully submerged, the water closing over his head, hair fanning out in the gentle swell of the sea.

 _ **TBC…**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Sleeping Sickness and Things that Bite**

 **Chapter Two**

"Sammy, what the hell are you doing?!" Dean called out, horrified and sick with worry.

The kid was obviously in some kind of weird trance, and that was just _asking_ for trouble.

"Sam, stop!"

What was more than frightening? The strange and hauntingly peaceful expression that had overcome Sam's face before it disappeared beneath the waves.

Dean struck out, surprised at how far out his brother had managed to get from the shore, salty sea water splashing his face and almost choking him with each and every stroke.

At least it wasn't cold, though he wondered how Sam would fair given how sick he'd been recently. In spite of Bobby and Dean's best efforts with IV fluids, the kid was still badly malnourished post sleeping sickness.

When he was close enough, he reached out under water, felt the material of Sam's sleep clothes grazing his fingertips and almost slipping away, before he surged forward again with purpose, and grabbed a firm hold.

Dean's arms closed around Sam and he dragged the kid to the surface. Surprisingly, Sam didn't put up a fight, just lay back, arms floating listlessly by his sides, eyes staring up at the blue sky above with a wet, serene smile.

"I could live here forever," Sam murmured, dazedly.

Dean coughed and spluttered a little, caught in the face by a small white tipped wave.

"Yeah and you could die here too, you pull crap like that again!" he growled, and dragged his brother back to the shore. "What in hell were you thinking?"

Sam didn't answer, and Dean was once again left with the feeling that Sam hadn't heard a word he'd said. As his feet hit the sandy bottom and seized purchase, he grasped Sam under his knees and carried him up and out of the water.

Sam, for his part, curled himself into his brother, tucking his head under Dean's chin like an infant seeking warmth and comfort.

"Let's get you dried off and into a change of clothes," Dean panted out, mainly to himself because he was pretty sure Sammy still wasn't listening. "Then we're gonna sit down and talk, and eat, and for the rest of this vacation I'm not letting you out of my sight even for a minute!"

Then he remembered his cell phone, abandoned on the sandy beach, and acknowledged that under the circumstances it wasn't necessarily a genius idea to lose their one and only communication tool.

He gently dumped his brother down on the sand, and grasped the kid's face between his hands.

"I'll be back in a second. No wanderin' off and no disappearin' acts, ya dig?"

Sam didn't answer, just stared out to sea with an almost longing expression on his face.

Dean sighed. "I'll take that as a yes."

He edged backwards, never taking his eyes off Sam, and got to his feet.

He found his half-buried cell phone by the call cut-off noise, even though it was partially muffled by sand. Pastor Jim had either given up or the connection had broken. Either way, it required a placating phone call later to explain what had happened, or Dean was gonna have an extremely anxious priest showing up on the doorstep at some point. Though, maybe that wasn't such a bad prospect after all. An extra pair of hands to deal with a dangerous haunting could come in handy.

Dean glanced at his brother and shook his head. Sam needed a break and so did Dean. No more hunts for the time being.

"Someone else can deal with this crap."

He collected Sam and trudged towards the house, a bad mood settling on his shoulders and darkening further by the minute. He nearly tripped twice, off balanced by the barely conscious, sodden weight of big-little brother in his arms.

Dean swore softly. It definitely wasn't his day.

"Oh no, there's no ghosts at the beach house," Dean muttered in a falsetto voice that dripped sarcasm and incidentally sounded absolutely nothing like Pastor Jim. "You're both perfectly safe there. It was probably your imagination, Dean, you're just tired. Don't worry about a thing. Sam can rest and you can sit back, take it easy, get some sleep… _my ass!_ "

He finished his rant on a growl, as he clomped towards the house aiming for a set of rear French windows, which were wide open and swinging gently in the light summer breeze. As he stepped through into the living room area, Dean wondered if Sam had woken up and gone looking for him in the house, before hitting the beach. It might explain why he hadn't left through his bedroom windows.

"Least I know how you got out," he grumbled to his brother, and stomped along the hallway to the bathroom, leaving small puddles of salt water on the hardwood floors. "Not that I locked the place down or anything but believe me, little brother, that's _exactly_ what I'm gonna do now. Oh bet on it!"

He sat Sam on the toilet lid and dropped to a crouch in front of him, a steadying hand on each of the kid's shoulders.

"Hey, you with me? Sammy?" he called, softly. "C'mon, dude, talk to me."

Sam stared blankly ahead.

"Dude!" Dean patted the kid's face. "Enough of the space cadet, ok?"

A few more minutes of gentle cajoling later and Sam blinked slowly, as though awakening from a deep sleep. His eyes, red from sea water and recent illness, met Dean's and that's when the panic began to set in.

"Wh-what? Dean…" he stammered out, eyes now darting about, taking in the bathroom and the look of almost angry concern on his brother's face. "What… what happened? What am I doing in here? And why are our clothes wet?"

Dean licked his lips, took a deep breath and counted to ten. It was hard keeping his temper under wraps when the switch marked 'fear for little brother's life' was flipped. And the last thing Sam needed was big brother losing his shit over something he clearly had no memory of, _or_ control over.

"Easy, Sam," Dean told him, gently. "Was kinda hoping you could tell me, but I guess not."

Sam swayed suddenly and would have fallen off the toilet lid if not for Dean.

"I gotcha, kiddo," Dean said, bracing Sam tighter around the shoulders.

Sam began trembling and looked down at himself in disbelief.

"Wh-why are m-my clothes wet?" he asked again.

Dean sighed. "Wet is what happens when you make like flipper. In future, let the Clown Fish find Nemo."

Sam looked confused.

Dean sighed again. "Do me a favour, huh? Don't do that again. Stay out of the ocean."

"But you said…" Sam trailed off and stared hard at Dean with a deep frown.

"What?" Dean joined in with the frowning, his concern peaked all the more, his voice hardening. "What did I say, Sam?"

Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times before answering in a soft, scared voice.

"You said… you said we can live here, if we want to… that we just had to… walk into the ocean… and this was all ours, forever…" his puppy dog gaze fixed on Dean, searching for something, or maybe trying to figure something out.

His frown suddenly faded when he finally got it, and his eyes filled with shame.

"But it wasn't you," he tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling. "God! I'm sorry, Dean. M'so damn stupid."

Sam's trembling intensified, his teeth began to chatter with cold and misery wrapped itself around him like a cloak. As Dean had feared, Sam was too thin and still too sick to cope with the recent changes in temperature his body had undergone during his ocean cruise.

Dean shook his head and managed a shaky smile. "Your stupidity's a whole other issue, but _this_ ain't your fault, Ariel. Some weird Caspar crap's going down, and we need to get out of here before it happens again."

Sam's mouth twitched into a smile of its own.

He glanced around, properly seeing the place for the first time, and raised an eyebrow.

"Is this a new hunt?" he asked half-heartedly, a part of him really hoping it wasn't. At least, not right now.

"Not if I can help it!" his brother almost snapped, eyes boring into Sam's, then eased off a little. Kid was clearly still confused about everything. Shouting at him wasn't going to help matters.

Without another word, Dean stood and lifted one hand to the shower dial, while keeping the other on Sam's shoulder in case the kid was somehow coerced into taking off again.

"Let's get you warm."

Once the water spray had heated up sufficiently, Dean turned to Sam and gestured to the shower cubicle.

"Clothes off and in ya get," he said, firmly.

Sam levelled a weak glare at him, a sure sign that he was returning to his old self, albeit slowly.

"M'not getting naked in front of you, perv!" he grumbled, petulantly.

Dean barely kept from rolling his eyes. "You got nothing I ain't seen before…"

"Yeah, like _that's_ not weird…" Sam muttered.

"… and you need to get warm."

"Nuhuh." Sam shook his head. He was determined to keep hold of what little dignity he suspected he had left.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

"Dude, last thing _I_ want is to see _you_ naked." He stopped and considered that for a second, before adding. "Now, Nicole Scherzinger? _That_ I could live with." A distant, lusty grin appeared on his face, but he remembered where he was and quickly wiped it off.

Kid brother was the priority. Nicole S fantasies could wait 'til another time. Like alone in the bathtub later.

He cleared his throat and gazed sternly at Sam. "If it makes you feel better I'll turn my back, but I ain't leaving this room."

Sam huffed and hung his head. "Guess that's better than nothing." He shot Dean a suspicious look. "Just… no peeking."

Dean looked incredulous. "I have no intention of going blind, dude! Get your mind out the gutter!"

"And no pranks."

"Yeah," and now Dean did roll his eyes, and his tone grew angry. "'cos in between your coma, my twenty-four seven Nurse Nightingale routine, driving us all the way out here and rescuing your ghost-whammied, ungrateful, bitchy little ass from the ocean, I had time to set shit _up_!"

Sam's flinch was miniscule, but Dean still noticed and he immediately took a step back.

He opened and closed his mouth, unsure what to say that wouldn't make things worse. Wisely, he decided not to provoke things any further, sighed and turned towards the bathroom door in defeat.

"Just… get showered, try not to slip over and bash your head, and I'll go get you some dry clothes."

"Dude…" Sam called out to him, somehow managing to pack a ton of apology into a one syllable word.

But Dean had already left, and Sam could hear him rummaging about in the bedroom.

Sam sighed heavily, stripped off his wet PJs and stepped under the hot spray.

"Way to go, Sam," he muttered, angrily to himself. "Ya know, I think Dean's right. You really are an ungrateful bitch."

Somehow, someday, he would find a way to open his mouth without pissing Dean off.

Dean waited out of sight next to the open bathroom door, clean underwear, a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt folded in his arms. He stared despondently out the bedroom window, wondering if he'd ever manage to get things right with Sam.

Kid ran off to Stanford, Dean let him go without a word. Dad told the kid to stay gone, Dean remained silent. During the years that followed, Dad kept an eye on Sam from a distance, made sure he was safe, but Dean never went along and never got in contact. Not even a phone call, the fear of having his feelings hurt if Sam didn't pick up staying his hand.

Which seemed beyond stupid now.

 _Exactly when did I turn into a girl?_

 _Gonna grow lady parts at this rate._

And years later, when they try to talk, when they finally try to _communicate_ , Dean fucks it up.

Again.

"Maybe I should have just left him at Stanford," he muttered aloud, running a hand down his face and feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

But Dean knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he didn't mean it. The very idea of leaving Sammy there, amidst the burnt out ruins of the home he'd shared with Jess, made him nauseous. Sam had been laser focused on avenging his girl, had channelled all his anger and grief and heart break into finding her killer. There was no way Dean could have disappeared on the heels of that. Sam was a damn fine hunter, one of the best considering his youth, but without big brother to keep him balanced, said youth combined with that vengeful streak would see Sam dead within a month, a year if he was lucky.

Dean shuddered inwardly and stood up straight with renewed purpose. His job was clear. Always had been.

The shower began to run cool, and Sam felt a pang of guilt for taking all the hot water. He would have to make it up to Dean after the next hunt. There was a _lot_ to make up to Dean, but Sam figured he could start by letting him have first shower at the next motel.

Maybe it was this place or his little sojourn into the ocean, but his head was feeling clearer than it had in weeks and he was able to acknowledge a few things.

The brothers needed to talk, about the past, present, and future. They needed to talk about finding Dad and tracking down Jess and Mom's killer. About hunting, and how Sam still wanted to be a part of the family without giving up his Stanford dream. Because when this was all over, when the demon was dead, he was heading back there again. Things wouldn't ever be the same, not after Jess, but he owed it to her to keep on track and a career in criminal law was the goal.

And maybe someday his family would need his services. Because while Winchesters were heroes - _saving people, hunting things_ , Dean had once said - they weren't exactly on the right side of the law, and it was only a matter of time before one of them was caught. A little credit card fraud here or an illegal card game there; a bored cop hidden at the side of the road decides to pull them over and perform a random check, opens the trunk…

One day they were going to push their luck too far. They'd already come close too many times in the weeks since Sam returned to the hunt.

But then there was this…

He remembered what Dean had said to him before he went down under the pagan dart, and it hurt. Trouble was, Sam's conscience informed him, just because it hurt didn't mean it wasn't true.

Sam _had_ been a snob. Turned his nose up at the Winchester family business, and why?

Jealousy.

Pure, green eyed monster shit.

Because Sam knew all those years ago, before the night he left for Stanford, before he even filled in the application form, and had always known since, that he was the inferior hunter. Not _even_ a hunter, in fact. A barely there member of the Winchester family, who held the other two back and hid out in the libraries 'cos he was too scared shitless to admit he was _scared shitless_ _about hunting because…_

…because he was afraid of losing his family. If Dad and Dean died on a hunt because Sam screwed up, how was he supposed to live with that?

So he'd kept it to himself until the night he left, when John Winchester had pushed him too far. Dean hadn't been there for the entire fight, had stormed out in silence half way through, which was just as well.

Because Sam had told Dad the truth.

Predictably, it wasn't something that a former marine was going to take lightly, his son admitting he was scared. Dad didn't want a coward on his team and had ordered him to stay away, to never call, never write, and to steer clear of Dean.

And now he had to find a way to explain it to Dean without losing him forever.

But such conversations required rational thinking and calm temperaments, uncommon traits in two brothers who had spent years at odds with each other. Hot, hurtful recriminations would be their downfall yet again, if they allowed it…

Sam shut off the water, just in time to hear Dean muttering to himself.

"Maybe I should have just left him at Stanford,"

Heart aching, Sam froze, listening intently, waiting, _hoping_ his brother would let him off the hook, somehow let him know it wasn't what he thought but nothing else came.

He heard Dean sigh over the sound of the drip-drip-drip of the showerhead, but that was it.

Fighting hurt, angry tears, Sam grabbed a towel from the nearby shelf and began drying himself off.

Once he had his emotions under control, he wrapped the towel round his waist and stumbled out of the bathroom. A hand appeared from his right, offering clean clothes. Sam hesitated and bit into his bottom lip.

"Get dressed before you catch cold," Dean told him, tonelessly, but Sam could still detect the concern behind it, and it lessened his hurt somewhat.

"Thanks, Dean," he mumbled and carefully took the boxers, jeans and tee-shirt from his brother, keeping his head well down.

Dean didn't reply, just pushed away from the wall and grabbed up both duffle bags from the floor.

"Where are we going?" asked Sam, pulling on his clothes.

"You got water on the brain, or something?" replied Dean, with a raised eyebrow. "We're hitting the road, bitch, and Pastor Jim is gonna send someone else to take care of this place." He shrugged. "Well, soon as I call him that is."

Sam frowned. It wasn't like Dean to give up on a hunt before it had even started, no matter how impromptu.

"You sure that's what you wanna do, man?" he shifted onto one foot, while pulling a sock onto the other. "I mean, isn't this what you wanted? Us, hunting, together?"

Dean's expression could have frozen the fires of hell. "Look, I get that you hate this life, Sam, so soon as we find Dad and help him deal with Mom's killer? I'll take you back to school." He slung a duffle bag over his shoulder and turned away. "You won't have to hear from me again."

"Dean, wait." Sam advanced on his brother and stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.

"What?" Dean's tone was devoid of all emotion, and his gaze remained cold, but Sam could see the glimmer of sadness, anger, and hope in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, man," Sam told him, softly. "I'm sorry for a lot of things. I never meant to hurt you. Ever. This life? It's just not for me, but that doesn't mean…" he broke off and sighed when Dean's expression hardened all the more, if possible. He wasn't getting anywhere like this. "Look…"

"No, I get it, Sam," Dean shrugged Sam's hand off his shoulder, his mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. "This _life_ ain't good enough. That's fine. Soon as you're done with us – _don't need_ us anymore - you'll move on."

The brothers stared at each other for a long, anguished moment, Sam wanting to refute Dean's claim but couldn't get the words out round the sudden lump in his throat, Dean waiting – _praying_ \- for Sam to deny it, but no denial came.

Dean nodded, slowly, eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I thought so."

When he left the room this time, Sam didn't stop him.

The steaks, still in their marinade, were stored back in the fridge along with the rest of the food Dean had planned on preparing. The French doors were closed and locked up tight, the curtains closed over them.

Sam was leaning tiredly against the passenger door of the Impala when Dean exited the grounds after one final check of the house.

Dean wouldn't even look at him, just sauntered over to the car, opened the driver's side, slid behind the wheel and calmly closed the door. Silence followed and Sam waited, what for, he wasn't certain. Maybe for Dean to start the engine and drive off without him, just as he probably deserved.

A tap on the passenger window made Sam turn around.

Dean was leaning across the seat, watching him. "You getting in or what?" he mouthed.

Sam's mouth formed a straight, thin line as he wrenched open his door and climbed in.

"Dean…"

"Save it."

"No, look, there's something…"

"I said _save it!_ " Dean all but yelled, shocking his brother into silence. He busied himself with slotting the key in the ignition, but out the corner of his eye he could see Sam staring at him.

He turned the key.

Nothing happened. Just a hollow metallic _click-click_ , followed by silence.

Dean's jaw dropped. "Nononononono. I gave you a complete overhaul just a few months ago." He stroked the steering wheel, and cooed gently. "C'mon, baby. You can do it. Do it for Papa."

He tried again, with as much success as the first attempt.

The flat of Dean's hand collided with the steering wheel, making Sam jump.

Another try. Another impotent _click-click._

"Sonofabitch!" Dean roared, and slammed out of the car before Sam could comment.

The younger brother sat there for a couple of seconds, collecting his thoughts and deciding the best way to open his mouth without further angering Dean, who appeared to be approaching breaking point.

The older brother took a moment to lean in through the driver's open window, pop the hood with an angry snarl, and stalk to the front of the car.

Sam watched Dean push the hood all the way up.

"Shit," he murmured sadly, and followed his brother.

"Anything?" Sam asked, quietly, as he approached.

Dean was leaning over the engine compartment, muttering and swearing, hands darting about so fast that Sam couldn't even begin to follow what he was doing, but he assumed Dean was checking for problems.

His brother had always been a mechanical whiz. From engines to EMF devices, Dean had a gift for repair and invention. It was one of the things… one of the _many_ things that Sam admired and appreciated about him. One of these days, Sam was going to tell him that.

Dean stood up and slammed the hood down, his face set in a fierce scowl.

"Nothing. Not a wire or damn spark plug out of place." He stepped back, hands on hips, and stood staring at the car.

Maybe it was Sam's imagination, but the Impala seemed to cringe fearfully under that gaze, and he couldn't altogether blame it.

"Dean, it'll be ok," said Sam, gently. "You'll figure it out, you always do."

Dean spun around, nostrils flaring, and Sam took an unconscious step back.

"Yeah, 'cos I'm a fucking genius, right Sammy?" Dean sneered and wiped a hand down his face. "'Cos I got all the answers, and I can fix everything. Everything but you and this _goddammed, lousy excuse for a family!_ "

He was yelling again by the time he finished, heaving in great lungful's of air like an angry bull.

"That's right, Dean, you _can._ "

Sam's voice was an oasis of calm compared to his brother's right then, and he almost expected Dean to paw at the ground, lower his head and charge. Instead, he just stood there, waiting for Sam to continue, like he needed grounding, and this time Sam was willing to do that for him.

"You always fix us, Dean, 'cos that's you. Dad and I…" Sam shook his head on a sad chuckle. "Man, we're a mess. Without you, we'd have killed each other long ago. It was only you who kept us balanced out, kept us from tearing each other to pieces. You've protected me for so long, and… And I," he shifted from foot to foot and fixed Dean with his best puppy dog gaze. "I've never thanked for you that." He took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly.

Dean blinked, speechless; possibly for the first time in his life.

But Sam wasn't finished. When he spoke next, almost every other word was released on a sob, tears spilling over and rolling down his face.

"But I'm thanking you now, and I hope you can believe me, dude, 'cos… 'cos since _Jess_ … you've been the only thing keeping me from falling apart."

He closed the distance between them and grabbed Dean's shirtfront in his fists.

"And I need you to keep on doing that for me, Dean. 'Cos I think I'm falling anyway and I can't stop." He sniffed, licked his lips, tasting the salt of his tears, and searched Dean's expressionless face.

"Please, Dean," Sam begged, softly. "Please, hold on. Don't let me go."

Once again the brothers were left staring at each other wordlessly, until Sam swayed slightly, blinking and battling exhaustion.

Dean's eyes softened, and he wrapped his hands around his brother's, still buried in his shirt. He was a little shocked at how cold Sam's skin felt to the touch.

"C'mon, little brother," he whispered, gently rubbing the kid's hands. "Let's get you back inside the house."

Sam cleared his throat, nodded jerkily, and allowed Dean to slowly lead him back to the house, holding on to his big brother like a lifeline. He didn't care how it looked. He needed Dean, and Dean didn't seem to mind, so what the hell did it matter? Not like they were forerunners to a macho reality show or anything.

First thing Dean took care of, once they were back in the house, was Sam. He pushed the kid down onto the sofa in the living room and crouched in front of him.

"For the record, I'll never let you go, Sammy," he said, firmly. "You can be a hundred years old, and a hundred miles away, but I'll still be there to catch you if you fall, dude."

Sam looked so grateful that Dean feared things were gonna get even mushier.

He stood again and clapped Sam gently on the back. "Chick Flick over. Now lie down and get some rest, and I'll work on getting Baby fixed."

He turned to go, then stopped and looked back at Sam, who was watching him with something damn close to hero worship on his face.

"Here," he dug inside his leather jacket and came up with his homemade EMF meter. "Take this."

Sam slowly reached out, took it from Dean's grasp and slowly switched it on. Thankfully, it remained silent.

"I could give you a hand out there," he began but stopped when Dean glared at him. "Ok. Maybe not."

"Damn straight!" said Dean, looking half amused and half horrified at the idea of Sam getting anywhere near a tool box.

Straight A student with an Einstein level IQ he might be, but Sam was no mechanic. Kid didn't know a tyre iron from a carburettor.

Instead, he gestured to the meter. "No going anywhere, ok? And you gimme a call on your cell if any weird shit starts up in here again."

Sam nodded, unwilling to argue and risk setting off another row. "Ok."

Dean turned to go again, but was brought up short by his brother's tentative voice.

"You want me to get dinner started? I mean, not that you won't be able to fix the car, but it's getting…. late… and all…"

Sam's voice trailed off, and Dean frowned. He twisted round and stared at Sam's suddenly blank face, and at the same time the EMF meter started squealing like a stuck pig.

"Oh no you don't, not again," he growled when Sam stood in one fluid motion and appeared to sleep walk towards the French doors.

Sleigh bells tinkled cheerfully from all directions and invisible children laughed. All in all, it didn't bode well.

Dean raced over and grabbed Sam around the waist, but the kid kept on going as though Dean wasn't even there.

"I could live here…" Sam muttered on a sigh.

Dean was dragged along in a way vaguely reminiscent to a petulant child clinging to his momma's leg which was, frankly, embarrassing.

"Yeah," he grunted out with each step Sam took, scowling heavily and planting his feet, futilely trying to bring their little dance routine to a halt. "I'm sure you could live here, along with Santa Claus, all his little elves, and Rudolf the fucking Red Nosed Reindeer, but I gotta car to fix, and we gotta get the hell out of hereeeeeeowwwww!"

Next thing he knew he was flying through the air and crashing landing on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"Sam!"

Sam didn't stop, didn't acknowledge his brother, just kept on walking. When he reached the French doors his hand came out and turned the knob but, of course, it was locked. Dean had locked it earlier.

Dean almost had time to sigh in relief when the obstacle appeared to end Sam's journey, but whatever had a hold of his little brother wasn't prepared to give up so easily.

Sam backed up a few steps, then started running at the doors and didn't even stop after he'd crashed right on through the glass.

"Sammy!" Dean bellowed out, and staggered to his feet, rubbing his bruised arm. "Sam, stop!"

He glanced fearfully at the broken glass littering the floor, heart sinking when he spotted the blood.

Sam's blood.

And there was way too much of it.

 _ **TBC…**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Sleeping Sickness and Things that Bite**

 **Chapter Three**

Dean chased after his brother, frantic and desperate, and ran out onto the beach just in time to see Sam walking back into the ocean.

"What? I got 'fuck me' tattooed on my damn forehead today or somethin'?" Dean growled bitterly, as he sprinted after the kid.

His eyes widened with disbelief when a large dorsal fin appeared in the water, mere feet away from his brother, and began circling with deadly intent.

Mere feet away from his now _heavily bleeding_ brother who was, by this point, up to his neck in the ocean.

"Seriously," Dean puffed out, and reached for the Taurus in the back waistband of his jeans. "Why don't I just drop my pants, and bend over right now!"

He forced himself to stop running, slow his breathing and take aim.

The first shot hit the water an inch from the shark, startling it. It jerked away violently, sending a wave crashing over Sam, who didn't even notice and just carried on moving deeper until he was fully submerged.

Dean swore loudly and took aim again. This time he wasn't going to miss.

The second shot nailed it right in the left eye. Deep red blossomed around the beast discolouring the water, and Dean couldn't help a small crow of victory as it thrashed about, angry, disoriented and in pain.

"Alright bitch, _now_ we're talkin'!"

It wasn't dead, but maybe it was disabled enough to buy them some time. Time for Dean to retrieve his little brother and get the hell out of the water before Jaws regained its composure and came back for another game of 'fishy kiss chase'.

He ran to the water's edge. "Here we go again."

The shark was still randomly thrashing around, making more noise than two synchronised swimmers on honeymoon, so Dean plunged in after the kid, slicing through the waves as smoothly as a torpedo.

Repeating the same actions as earlier, Dean reached Sam and grabbed him up against his chest. Kicking with his legs and swimming with one arm, he made for the shoreline, but suddenly he realised something was very, very wrong.

The shark had gone silent.

When he looked around, frantically searching the water, there was no sign of the thing.

"Oh God…"

Fearing the beast had disappeared under the water and was even now silently heading for the brothers, intent on dining on them both like human sushi, Dean kicked harder. The idea of being pursued by a hungry shark was pretty terrifying, but not so terrifying as the idea that the shark wasn't just hungry anymore, but pissed as hell at Dean for shooting out one of its' eyes. And even Dean, who hated animal documentaries with a passion, knew that sharks didn't need eyes to hunt. Sam's blood was all it needed to home in on them.

So, in conclusion, a hungry, pissed off shark which had not only detected fresh blood but also had to be in pain from a lost eye…

"Means… we… are… very… much… _fucked!_ " Dean yelled aloud, enunciating each word carefully over the splash of water in his face.

He kicked harder and harder, Sam motionless in his arms, and kept his gaze on the beach behind him. He tried not to imagine he'd seen a dark shadow under the waterline heading his way, and nearly shit himself when his foot slammed into something solid.

 _Oh fuck! I just trod on a fucking shark and now it's gonna bite my fucking foot off…_

It took him a few seconds to calm down once he realised it was actually solid ground, and then he scrambled backwards until he was scraping his butt on the sandy beach, dragging Sam with him, the waves breaking gently over them both.

Once they were safely out of the water – and Dean, out of sheer paranoia born of too many hunts gone wrong, and possibly one too many lousy horror movies, had carried Sam another ten feet at least up the beach, just to be certain – they landed in a tangle of limbs on the soft sand.

When Dean looked up, his eyes widened. The dark shape he'd thought – _hoped_ – he'd imagined, was floating there, just off shore, and somehow he knew the damn thing was staring right at him from under the waves because he could feel the sheer malevolence of its' gaze.

Then, it just disappeared. Not swam off, or dived deeper, but actually _disappeared_.

Even the blood dissolved away instantly, leaving no trace.

"Fuck," he whispered.

Sam groaned and shifted, his body shivering again, and Dean looked down at him.

"Shit!" Oh yeah, Dean was all kinds of articulate today.

The kid was still bleeding, badly. He was covered in shallow cuts and bruises from his face-first encounter with the windows, some oozing lightly, others bleeding with more conviction.

But as Dean checked for further injury he discovered that there was a particularly deep laceration to Sam's right shoulder that looked like trouble. Blood leaked in a steady flow from the wound and pooled on the sand below.

Dean clasped a hand over it, pressing down hard, and blood squelching out from between his fingers. He winced in sympathy when that wrenched another strangled groan from his little brother.

"Sorry dude," he muttered. "Gotta stem the bleeding."

Sam's eyes fluttered open, brows drawn down in pain.

"D-Dean…" he whimpered and panted, chest heaving and legs twitching and kicking in the sand. His instinct to fight Dean's hold was thwarted by his waning strength, as cold, shock and blood loss caught up with him.

"S'ok, Sammy," said Dean, pulling the kid up onto his feet, and keeping a firm grip on the injury. "Let's get inside the house and take a look at this. Get some morphine in you, maybe."

Sam gasped at the change in height almost toppling over, but Dean took the brunt of it and held him upright.

"Wh-what the hell h-happened?" Sam slurred out, eyes mere slits in his pale, wet face.

"Same as before, dude," Dean replied, wrapping Sam's arm over his shoulders and heading back to the house. "You took a swim, but this time around you had a fight with a glass door along the way."

He didn't see any point in mentioning the shark. Dean was still struggling to deal with the emotional fallout from _that_ one as it was; adding it to Sam's burden would only make things worse for the poor kid.

"Donnn't remember," Sam whimpered, his words even more sluggish.

"Not surprising." Dean felt another spurt of fresh blood pouring from the wound, and sped up.

"Wh-Why's my sh-shoulder hhhhurt?" Sam's voice was becoming more and more faint.

Dean was proud of how well he kept the panic out of his tone. "Think you got some glass in there, dude, so just take it easy and let me do all the work. And make the most of it, 'cos soon as you're well again I'll need a break so you can carry _me_ for a change _._ "

Sam didn't say any more, but Dean could hear his pained rasping breaths and wondered if the injury went deeper than he'd first supposed. Like, maybe lung deep. But he didn't get time to speculate on it because the kid passed out cold just as Dean reached the broken doors.

"Crap," he muttered and tightened his hold. "Couldn't have waited 'til we're inside, huh? No, 'course not. Couldn't go making life easier on your brother now, right?"

Dean knew he was being an ass but he was tired, angry, wet, cold and scared, and he needed some way of letting it out before he got down to the difficult business of triaging Sam's injuries.

"Ok," he breathed as he kicked aside the rest of the broken window frame, and carried his brother inside. "This time we stay in the kitchen."

They left a blood trail all through the living room and Dean might have felt guilty if he didn't have more important things to worry about. He pushed Sam down onto the kitchen floor and checked his pulse. Fast, unsteady, faint. Not good.

Dean pulled out his cell, hit redial and held it to his ear. They were gonna need help getting out of here and Pastor Jim was the only person who knew anything about this place, then Sam would need a hospital…

He frowned when his ear was met with unnerving silence. Nothing. Not a dial tone, not even a stuffy operator's voice telling him the number was unavailable.

He held the phone away and stared at the blank screen. His breaths came quickly now, hands beginning to shake, mouth flooding with saliva while his stomach churned. Damn thing was leaking sea water all over the place. Dean hadn't had the presence of mind to remove it from his jacket when swimming after Sam the second time, too worried about that damn shark to think about it.

Nonononono… then his gaze snapped to his brother.

He remembered telling Sam to call him if there was any EMF activity, but did he actually have his phone on him at the time?

 _Please God, don't let his cell be on him too._

If it was, then it would have been destroyed in the sea same as Dean's. He did a quick check anyhow, gently patting down Sam's sodden pockets, and heaved a sigh of relief when he failed to find anything. For once, things were looking up.

"Sammy?" He tapped Sam's face, trying to keep his voice steady and calm. "C'mon, dude, open your eyes."

Sam moaned faintly and his eyelids lifted to half-mast.

"That's it kiddo," Dean crooned, stroking his hands over Sam's hair. "Listen to me carefully, Sammy. I need you to tell me where you put your cell phone, ok? Can you tell me that?"

Sam's mouth opened and closed a couple of times as he tried to get the words out.

"Sam, c'mon!" Dean resisted the urge to give him a shake and had to settle for practically screaming in the poor kid's face. "You need help and my phone's fucked, now where's yours, dammit?!"

"J-jack…" Sam scrunched his eyes shut, swallowed weakly and tried again. "Jacket… pocket. Car."

"Good boy."

He frantically searched the cupboards, pulling down cereal boxes, packets of flour, and eventually coming across a large container of salt.

"That's the ticket," he muttered, and began carefully but quickly salting the window frames, and a set of glass sliding doors that clearly led out into the gardens. He finished up with a line across the doorway into the hall, then swung round and began another search of a different nature.

Rooting through the cupboards under the sink, Dean found a couple of clean dish cloths, then leapt up and skidded across to his brother. He pressed one cloth against Sam's wound, murmuring apologies when the poor kid whimpered in pain, and used another to tightly wrap Sam's shoulder. To his dismay, but not necessarily his surprise, blood seeped straight through, immediately saturating the makeshift bandages. He had to move and quickly.

"I'll grab the first aid kit from the car. Be back before you know it. Just don't move and make sure you stay awake."

Sam's head lolled to the side to watch his brother leave.

"D-don't go…" he whimpered, softly, eyes filling with tears. "Please… s'dangerous… y-you could g-get hurt."

Dean turned back, face softening. "I'll literally be two seconds."

His little brother looked so young, helpless and vulnerable, lying on the floor, wounded and covered in blood. But it was Sam's big, wet eyes that almost changed his mind.

"Tell you what," he said, crouching back down by the kid's side. He checked one of the damp inner pockets of his jacket and sighed in relief when he found what he was searching for. "Whatever this is, it's going after you, ok? I'll be fine. So we just need to keep you safe."

Sam watched, frowning, when Dean produced a pair of hand cuffs and fastened one cuff around Sam's left wrist.

"Wha-whatchya doin'?" he whispered, tugging weakly on his arm.

"Think of this as just a safety harness," Dean told him, locking the other cuff to the leg of the kitchen table, a sturdy pine affair that wouldn't budge if Sam tried to pull it along the floor. "If that thing tries to compel you into the ocean again, you'll have to drag the table with you. And this," he pushed against the table, hard, to demonstrate. It remained rock solid. "ain't movin'."

Sam nodded, drunkenly. "'Kay."

Dean sighed and cupped the side of Sam's face. Kid was sweating profusely now and his body was trembling harder than ever. Sam stared up at him, eyes full of pain.

Licking his lips, Dean did his level best to hide his fear.

"I won't be long, Sammy," Dean said, and winked at him. "I promise."

He disappeared out of the kitchen without looking back.

Sam concentrated on breathing and listening out for his brother, but the pull of sleep was getting stronger, the need for release from his pain harder to resist.

A sound from outside, like the rumble of thunder, startled him into sudden movement and his shoulder screamed at him. He heard raised voices, angry, all swirling into each other, footsteps pounding around the house.

The voices were familiar; one was Dean's, another was deep, uncompromising, commanding, like a drill sergeant. A final, calm sounding voice was too soft to make out. That made three people; his tired brain was telling him.

Out the corner of his eye something moved. He blinked when a white light slowly filtered into the kitchen from the glass sliding doors, shining down on Sam and almost blinding him. Something took shape in the light, a misty shade at first, blurred and distorted, until it gained definition and colour. The flowers in the gardens beyond seemed to glow in the ethereal light, as though they were _enjoying_ the attention.

The apparition stepped forward but halted when it met the invisible barrier afforded by the salt line. It seemed confused at first and shrugged off the last vestiges of mist to reveal a pretty young girl in bell bottom jeans and a light blue paisley shirt. She was smiling and beckoning to him, her pale face friendly and inviting, clear and bright even through the dusty glass of the door.

Sam gaped. He was frozen on the spot, staring up at her, unable to move.

 _You can live here forever… if you want… all you've got to do…_

"Hey! I said no going to sleep!"

… _is walk with me… into the ocean…_

"Sam, wake the fuck up, dammit!"

A rough shake had Sam practically howling in pain, and he opened his eyes to Dean staring worriedly down at him. He didn't even remember closing them.

"G-God…" he choked out, the pain unbearable, and he could feel the world slipping sideways. "S-sorrrry. Ca-can't… so c-cold…"

"Yes you can," Dean commanded him, sounding angry and desperate. "You hold on and you stay awake, ok?"

He began pulling the cloth-bandages aside, checking Sam's injury and using more cloths he'd pulled from under the sink to mop up the blood.

A tall, dark shadow leaned over Dean's shoulder and Sam tried to press himself through the floor to get away from it.

"How's he doin', son?" the shadow rasped, voice whisky rough.

Dean didn't look up, just shook his head. "Not good. Bleeding's slowed but he's lost a lot of blood, and I think he's hallucinating."

Sam shivered harshly. "C-cold…"

"He's going into shock." Dean sighed in despair. "Dad, go get the blankets off one of the beds."

Sam blinked. "D-dad?"

The dark shadow spoke. "You'll be fine, kid. Just stay still."

A warm, calloused hand cupped the back of his head and gently stroked his hair. The shadow leaned closer and the tired, worried face of John Winchester swam into view. Sam jerked back in surprise, eyes wide, and a flutter of fear wormed its way through him.

"Hey Sammy," said Dad. "I'm here. We're gonna look after you son, so just lie still."

But Sam was having a hard time trusting him; the last time he'd seen the guy he'd been branded a coward, told to leave and warned never to return. Anger suddenly burned through him, red and hot like molten lava.

"No," Sam rasped out and started struggling angrily in Dean's hold, his one free arm flailing weakly. "Get away from me! Y-you told me to leave…"

"Sammy hold still, for Christ sake!" Dean hissed, worriedly, trying to pin him down. "Fuck's the matter with you?"

Sam felt a sharp scratch on the inside of his left arm - the wrist still cuffed to the table leg - and warmth spread throughout his body, relaxing his muscles and slowly deadening the pain. His head dropped back to the floor and rolled to the side with a soft sigh.

"I didn't call," he croaked, eyes sliding to half-mast. His anger slipped away, but sadness and shame scurried forth into its place. "D-did what you said. Didn't write… Dean… no yellow… str-streak…"

His words slurred and tailed off as the morphine pulled him down.

He felt Dean stroking his head and heard him muttering "Yellow streak? What the hell's he talkin' about?"

Dad mumbled something back at him, but Sam was fading under the drug, struggling to stay with it, eyes glazing over.

Dean stayed where he was, one hand cradling Sam's scull, the other grasping Sam's right wrist. He kept his eyes on Sam, watching over the kid.

His voice was low and calm when he spoke next, but the tone could have been used to cut diamonds.

" You wanna tell me what that was all about?" he demanded, and there was no mistaking who the question was directed at.

John switched on the cooker hood lamp and a dim glow filtered through the kitchen. Sam appeared even more sick and pale; John turned his back and shuffled around the kitchen. He set to work preparing medical gauze, bandages, sutures, and disinfecting the scalpel and forceps. He was doing his best to avoid the question, but he knew it was a futile exercise. When Dean made up his mind he wanted answers, there was no stopping him.

"Dad?" Dean sounded downright furious now, having already passed right through the 'smouldering anger' stage. "What was he talking about it?"

There was little point in reprimanding Dean for his tone because he had a perfect right to it. As Dean had stormed out during the fight, there was no way he could have known what transpired between Sam and John the night the kid left for Stanford. But somehow, John got the feeling any suspicions Dean had were pretty close to the truth, which was less surprising than it should have been. He dropped the scalpel into a dish of peroxide and swung round.

"What do you want me to say, Dean?" he asked, tiredly. "That I said something stupid to Sam all those years ago? Ok. I did. Happy now?"

Dean's jaw tightened. "What did you say to him?"

"Just… something I shouldn't," John replied, then snorted humourlessly when he saw the angry disbelief on Dean's face. "Why's that such a shock to you, huh? I've been saying stupid stuff all your goddammed life. Why should this be any different? Can we move on now? We got more important shit to do here! We can discuss my failed parenting techniques when this is all over."

Dean did look up then. His was expression flat but his eyes were aflame with angry green fire.

"I won't ask you again," he slowly got to his feet, fists clenched at his sides and stared at his Dad. "What. Did you. Say?"

John wasn't a person who was easily intimidated, least of all by his sons, but right then he felt the first tendrils of unease. He owed Dean an explanation. He owed him the truth. No matter the fallout from it.

He ran a hand down his face, leaned back on the kitchen counter and folded his arms.

"Long story short, Sam told me he wanted no part of hunting and he told me why," John sighed. "Looking back now, I guess my response was pretty harsh. But I was angry and… hell, I've been looking back on that night for the last four years and regretting what I said to him. Just didn't have the balls to admit it."

He let his head drop back, and he stared up at the ceiling. "Guess that makes _me_ the real coward of this family, not Sam." John made a small noise of sadness. "I should never have told him _he_ was."

Dean's eyebrows almost disappeared through his hairline. "You…" he took a threatening step forward. " _You told Sammy he was a coward?"_

"Dean…" John began, but Dean cut him off.

"You bastard," he declared lowly.

John straightened up, shoulders back, eyes narrowed. "Watch your mouth, boy."

"Fuck you, Dad!" Dean growled from between clenched teeth. "You don't get to say shit like that and just brush it aside!"

"You saw what he was like, Dean, he pushed me too far!"

"So what if he did?" Dean spat back at him. "What kind of excuse is that? You're the adult, he was fucking _eighteen_! Just a kid! That's what kids are _supposed_ to do, and as a parent you're supposed to _guide_ him, not force him down a path he wasn't ready for!"

When John fell silent at the end of his oldest son's tirade, Dean thought he should feel a certain amount of satisfaction for that, feel like he'd won somehow, but it was a false victory. He knew he was being hypocritical – he'd given Sam as much shit as John did for taking off to Stanford – but now he was finally getting it. He finally understood what Sam had been driving at all these years. Yes, the kid had been scared of hunting but unlike Dad, Dean thought he knew the real reason why.

Sam wasn't scared for himself. He was scared for his family and living with that fear had been too much for him. It was just a guess on Dean's part, but he'd seen how driven Sam had been since hitting the road again after Jess; it all made sense at last.

And _shit,_ but it told him everything he needed to know about his little brother. Well, some of it.

"Why didn't he call me, Dad?" Dean asked, still staring at Dad. "He was just a hot headed kid but he would've called once he'd cooled off, despite you kicking him out. He always did. Why didn't he this time?"

For a moment there, he honestly believed John was going to dodge the question, but instead, he took a breath.

"Uh, I guess…"

But it was Sam who answered from the kitchen floor, in a raspy voice, heavily laden with morphine, fatigue and regret.

'" _You walk out that door, you stay gone. No calls, no letters, no emails. Last thing I need is you infecting Dean with your yellow streak."'_

Silence slammed in through the kitchen like a tomb stone falling into place.

Sam's eyes were closed when he spoke again. "Quote, unquote. N-never forgot. N-never will."

 _ **TBC…**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Sleeping Sickness and Things that Bite**

 **Chapter Four**

Dean's face resembled a thunderhead; dark, angry and menacing with lightning only moments away.

"You and I," he growled, slowly and carefully at John. "Are going to have some serious words later, but for now I need to look after my brother."

John looked away. "I'll remove those towels from his wound," he began, but Dean's threatening step in his direction made him slam his mouth shut.

"You stay the _fuck_ away from him." Dean jerked his chin towards the door. "Go get those blankets, help Pastor Jim set up wards and salt lines and read through his research."

Sam, floating on a cloud of opiates, waited with baited breath for the yelling to really start but, to his surprise, John didn't argue. He just nodded, cast a sorrowful glance at Sam and left the room without another word.

He had also picked up on the information that Pastor Jim Murphy was here, and he felt a tremendous sense of relief. Now that Dad and Dean were at each other's throats (for a change, he silently added), the Winchesters' desperately needed a go between, a buffer to keep them from killing each other.

Sam had gone into mourning the night he left, bearing Dad's words on his heart like a cancer in his soul. Repeating them now, hearing them out loud hadn't lessened their impact on him. They still hurt like a bitch. But he honestly hadn't meant to say anything and had gained no pleasure from throwing them in John's face. The last thing he wanted was to set off another feud in his family, but the worst consequence had been for his older brother. Dean had idolised their Dad, had seen him as the ultimate hero, and now Sam had damaged their relationship, perhaps irreparably. Yes he'd been angry, the pain had made him volatile and vulnerable, tongue loosened by morphine, and the words just came tumbling out.

If he could have snatched them back, he would have done so and gladly.

He became aware that Dean was once again crouched beside him and gently peeling away the makeshift bandages. Sometime during his thought process Sam must have lost consciousness again because he was cocooned in some soft, warm blankets.

John had been back here at some point, then.

Sam wrenched open his eyes and acute sadness washed over him when he saw the look on Dean's face. No doubt that small meeting over the blankets hadn't gone any better than the previous one, and Dean must have sensed his unease because he sighed and stopped what he was doing for a moment.

"We didn't say a word to each other," said Dean, tonelessly, but it didn't go unnoticed that he wouldn't meet Sam's gaze. "He handed over the blankets and left."

Sam could see through the façade. His older brother was like a small child who, far too early on in life, had been told about death, that Santa Claus didn't exist, and the Easter Bunny was in a job share with the tooth fairy. All the fun had been taken out of it.

And that was exactly the point; nothing in Dean's life had gone the way it should, the way he _deserved._ Sam couldn't help feeling responsible for this last big reveal, the final piece of his brother's childhood lost forever.

Little wonder Dean's face fell a little bit more each and every time Stanford was mentioned. His little brother leaving the way he did, and being gone so long…

Sam reached out and grasped Dean's wrist, stilling his hand. "M'sorry, Dean."

Dean kept his eyes down on Sam's wound, breathing slowly and carefully through his nose, an action Sam had seen him do when he was trying to control his temper.

"I-I didn't want you to know. You've put up with so much shit from Dad and me…you sh-shouldn't have _had_ to know."

Dean merely grunted, gently shoved Sam's hand aside, and carried on tending the wound.

It was an effort not to hiss in pain as Sam felt Dean's fingers steadily probing the laceration. He sank his teeth into his lower lip but it soon overwhelmed him. Morphine could only do so much in the face of field surgery.

Black spots began to dance across his vision when Dean tugged on something and Sam cried out, felt a flood of fresh, warm blood pouring down from his shoulder.

"Shit," Dean said on an exhale. "Sorry kid, but I think you got a piece of glass or something stuck in there." Anger melted away, replaced with worry which he unsuccessfully tried to hide behind his game face. "Looks like a trip to the quacks' for you, dude."

Sam shook his head, eyes half closed and fresh shivers wracked his body. "Don't th-think it'll l-let me leave," he said, on a half-whimper of pain.

Dean leaned over him, green eyes glinting in the dim light.

"It's not gonna get a choice," he told Sam, quietly. "Whatever this thing is… _whoever_ … it's gonna get its ass well and truly kicked for hurting you. That ain't theory, dude, that's fact."

He patted Sam's good shoulder and prepared another syringe of morphine.

Sam gazed up at him with a crooked smile. "Does Jim know who it might be?"

Dean shook his head. "He swept the place when he first got the keys a couple years ago, but there was nothing. No EMF, no Spidey senses tingling." He frowned, as though something suddenly occurred to him. "But that was during summer, so maybe… I dunno…"

He trailed off as he carefully administered the dose to Sam's arm. Riding the heels of the previous dose that was still swimming around Sam's blood stream, it kicked in straight away, numbing the pain while Dean went on to clean out the cut.

"You think maybe this ghost only comes around at Christmas." Sam finished for him after a moment or two.

Dean nodded, thoughtfully. "It would fit. Explains why it wasn't picked up on before." His eyes narrowed. "Do you remember anything? From when it compelled you, that is."

Sam frowned. His head felt like it was spinning around, like he was caught up in a slow dance. "Just the voices at first, and a weird feeling, like my body wasn't my own but I was content to give up control. I guess that's how it got me in the water. That was all, until you brought me into the kitchen, then it kind of upped its game."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, sharply. "It got passed the salt lines?"

"No. It was outside." He pointed shakily to the kitchen's glass sliding door. "A girl, pre-teen, I'm guessing." Sam blinked, trying to recall what she looked like. "Pretty. Loud, flowery shirt, flared jeans, like from the 70s or something. She was here, talking to me through the glass as clearly as if she were in the room. That was just before you and Dad…" he swallowed, mouth suddenly feeling like a sand pit. "Before you guys came in."

"What'd she say to you?"

Sam shrugged without thinking and winced in pain. "The usual. You could live here, come into the water, etcetera." He felt sad and weary. "I guess whoever she was, she really liked the beach."

Dean wiped a hand over his mouth and huffed.

"Alright. I'll stand guard, you get some rest," he said, and pushed aside his jacket, revealing the silver Taurus. Sam knew without asking that it was loaded with rock salt rounds. "Nothing's getting near us."

 _ **SSSSSSSS**_

"You say Colonel Williams left this place to you?"

Pastor Jim nodded. "As a gift. I swept the area back then but there was no sign of anything paranormal." He glanced guiltily over his shoulder towards the house. "Guess I didn't do a very good job."

"Don't blame yaself, Jim. You couldn't have known."

"Not much consolation for Sam," Jim answered, despondently.

"He'll be fine for now," John told him. "Dean's gonna keep an eye on him while you and I deal with this thing." He sighed. "Who'd have thought it, huh? A Christmas ghost no one knew about."

"Yep," replied the priest. "Every time I think I've seen it all, something new surprises me."

John rummaged around in the truck, more for a distraction, for something to _do_ , than anything else. He grunted and slammed his palm on the side of the truck.

"John? Everything ok?"

John turned at the sound of Pastor Jim's worried voice, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a humourless smile.

"You mean apart from Sammy hating me and bleeding out on the kitchen floor?" he shrugged, despondently. "Nothing. And nothing more than I deserve."

Jim didn't say a word in response to that, but he stared pointedly at John.

"Yeah, I know!" John growled and angrily slammed the trunk shut. "I've been an asshole. As usual." He pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his voice. "Apologies don't come easy to me, Jim."

"They're not supposed to, that's the whole point," replied Jim, quietly and without judgment. "They aren't easy for anyone."

John sighed. "I think Dean hates me, too."

"For the record," said Jim. "I don't think either of your sons hates you. They're just angry right now."

"And with good reason." John studied his feet, absently kicked up some sand and watched it spray up the side of his truck. "Shoulda seen the look on Dean's face. And the way he spoke to me… aw hell! He had every right!"

The two remained silent for a couple of seconds, listening to the waves rolling onto the beach in the distance. A seabird flew in a lazy circle high above, watching and waiting, until it suddenly descended towards the ocean and swooped in for the kill. John turned back to Pastor Jim before it rose again, uninterested in what it claimed for its dinner.

"Somehow I don't think saying I'm sorry is gonna cut it this time, Jim."

"Maybe it will, maybe it won't." The pastor gripped the younger man's shoulder and squeezed gently. "But you're here now, when they need you most, and that's a good start."

John blinked rapidly and cleared his throat. "Yeah. S'least I could do."

They gathered the rest of the equipment from Pastor Jim's old Volvo, the square, boxy kind that John remembered from the 1980s. Bobby Singer had fixed it up and given it to Jim as a birthday gift, and the priest had adored the ugly thing right from the get go.

" _It's not the car,"_ Jim has explained back then. _"It's the sentiment behind it."_

Quite what Bobby'd had in mind as a 'sentiment' John wasn't certain, but he was fairly sure the car had outlived many of its previous owners by that point and, well into the first decade of the new millennia, it was still going strong. (Some months later it occurred to John that the car's longevity might have been a bad portent for Pastor Jim).

"Do we still want these?" John indicated the fibre optic Christmas tree wrapped in plastic, and decorations spilling out the sides of a torn and battered old cardboard box.

Jim nodded and studied John's face. "It's why we came here in the first place, John. Or are you planning on taking off once we've dealt with whatever's going on here?"

He raised an eyebrow.

John took the hint and grimaced. "Good point." He reached in and grabbed the box, hefting it up out of the Volvo. "Not sure they'll be in the mood for all this, what with Sam's injury and Dean scowling at me like I just shot his puppy."

"Let's just take each moment as it comes," said Pastor Jim, not unsympathetically.

John sighed and nodded.

This wasn't turning out to be quite what he'd had in mind. Spending Christmas with his sons, presents under the tree, a roast dinner, maybe some badly sung carols… it was supposed to be a well-deserved break for all of them and a surprise for Sam and Dean. John and Sam had some catching up to do, in more ways than one, and he'd hoped to take the time to apologise to the kid for the stupid things he'd said and done, to console his youngest son over the loss of his girl. He didn't expect Sam to forgive him right away, if ever. However, he'd hoped to lay the foundations for a stronger, better relationship with him.

Now he wasn't so sure that could happen.

"Go on ahead," Jim pulling out his cell phone. "Colonel Williams passed away a couple of years ago, but his daughter is still around. I'll give her a call and see if she knows anything."

John nodded in resignation, marched across to the house and strode inside, dumping the box of decorations down in the hallway. Every instinct told him to go check on his boys, but somehow he knew he wouldn't be welcome.

Instead, he pulled an EMF meter from inside his jacket, and switched it on.

All was silent. Not so much as a blip.

He moved slowly through to the living room, where the meter made a tiny, pathetic squeaking noise.

"Residuals," he murmured.

It was picking up on the recent activity rather than anything current. He glanced around, jaw tightening when he saw the shattered French window and what must have been Sam's blood on the broken glass.

The meter fell silent again, and John moved carefully through to the bedrooms. He tried the smaller bedroom first, sweeping the place for signals, but the meter remained stubbornly passive.

He trod slowly towards the other bedrooms, watching the needle carefully.

"Come on," he muttered, frustration mounting. "You must be here somewhere."

It wasn't until his foot crossed the threshold into the master bedroom that the needle twitched again, but this time it was accompanied by something else...

 _Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse._

John froze. The girl's voice was hesitant, a mere whisper in the back of his mind, but he knew it wasn't just his imagination.

He swung round to face a wall lined with fish trophies, and the meter went haywire.

"Gotcha."

 _ **SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

"Was there a shark?" Sam asked, sleepily. He was slumped against his brother, head under Dean's chin, and enjoying the shared body heat. Blood loss was a bitch for losing warmth.

"Shark?" Dean sounded guarded.

"Yeah," Sam licked his lips. "I remember a shark. That second time in the water. Did you kill it?"

He heard Dean swear under his breath.

"No, I didn't kill it Sam," he finally replied. "And not for the reasons you're thinking."

Sam sounded amused. " _What_ reasons am I thinking?"

"That I saved it 'cos it's an endangered species, you big hippy!"

Sam snorted but ignored the good natured insult. "And?"

Dean growled in frustration. "I didn't kill it 'cos you can't kill something that's already dead."

Sam gulped. "You mean…"

"Yeah, damn thing was a ghost."

"A _ghost shark?!_ "

"Why Sammy, you almost sound surprised!" Dean chuckled without humour. "Yep, a damn ghost shark. But I managed to wound it with an iron bullet, before it disappeared at any rate."

"Wow."

"Uhuh."

"Shit, man," Sam muttered on an exhale. "Does Dad know?"

"Yep. And Pastor Jim." Dean sounded worn out and worried.

"Any theories?"

"They're working on it."

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Not very forthcoming, dude."

"You just worry about keeping still, and let Dad and Pastor Jim worry about the ghost."

"You're seriously taking a back seat on this?" Sam remarked in disbelief. "Really? The ghost was compelling _me_ , Dean. Aren't you curious about that?"

"In case you'd forgotten, Sam, you just got skewered worse than a damn shish kebob…"

"How could I forget?" Sam interrupted him, ignoring the warning tone in his brother's voice.

"…and the last damn thing you need is a hunt!" Dean retorted, angrily. "I'm not letting you get hurt again!"

Sam pulled back and watched him with wide eyes. " _Dude_ , it wasn't your fault. And it wasn't the shark, it was a damn _door!_ "

Dean turned his head away. "I know why it chose you. That psychic stuff you were telling me about, right?"

Sam pursed his mouth and nodded. "Yeah. I think it latched on to me because of that, sure."

Dean sighed. "Then it's down to me to keep you safe. You're not getting in the water again, so don't even think it."

Sam shuddered. "Believe me, I'm not!"

A scuffling and footsteps from the hallway made the brothers stiffen up, but they relaxed when Pastor Jim appeared. He looked pale and guilty, cell phone gripped tightly in hand.

"Good to see you, Pastor Jim" said Sam, softly. "Been a long time huh?"

Jim smiled, fondly. "It has indeed." He came forward a step. "Wish I could say you were looking well, but…"

He shrugged and glanced at the floor.

"I'm so sorry, boys. I should have checked more thoroughly."

Sam blinked slowly and stared hard at the guy. "Not your fault."

The priest snorted inelegantly and shook his head. "You sound just like your father."

Sam's jaw tightened. "Sometimes even _Dad_ can be right."

There was no point in arguing with Sam Winchester, whose own stubborn nature was merely eclipsed by his father's, Jim thought with wry amusement. He held out his cell phone.

"That was Colonel Sir Henry James Williams' oldest daughter," he told the brothers and nearly laughed at the look on Dean's face.

"Jeez, that's a lot of names," said Dean, in amazement. "What's wrong with simplicity?"

Jim smothered a grin and frowned. "He was a knight of the British Crown, and commanded his own battalion against the Germans in World War II. He was a stiff upper lip kind of guy, but a perfect gentleman. Show some respect, Dean."

"M'just sayin'…" Dean grumbled softly until he saw the glint of mirth in the Pastor's eye, huffed and gestured for him to continue.

"His daughter's family moved back to England some years ago, before he died. I called her a few minutes ago to ask about this place. She was surprised to hear from me after all these years, and she's a bit hard of hearing," Jim looked uncomfortable. "We lost touch after her father died, but it appears there is nothing wrong with her memory…"

Dame Winifred Williams-Cunningham was dignified and graceful in her twilight years, and boasted she could remember absolutely _everything_ that had ever happened in her life, down to the most seemingly insignificant time, place and detail.

One such time, she recalled rather painfully, involved a family reunion a couple of weeks before Christmas of 1972. Various uncles, aunts, and distant cousins came from all over the world to gather at the William's beach retreat, laden with wine, gifts and stories to tell. They'd all been looking forward to spending the holiday season in the sun, but some recent shark sightings in nearby bays and inlets had cast a shadow over the celebrations, particularly for the children, all of whom were banned from playing in the water.

On a particularly hot and humid afternoon, a week into their stay, a few of Winifred's second cousins from the American side of the family, were playing on the beach and making sand castles. One of the younger girls, Therese, waded into the water on a dare from her brother, but swimming wasn't one of her strongest suits and it wasn't long before she got into difficulties.

Sam tried to sit up a little, but Dean's hand on his shoulder kept him down.

"Easy Sammy," Dean murmured.

"What happened?" Sam asked, anxiously, wincing in pain.

Pastor Jim looked sad. "Her older brother, Stevie, swam in to rescue her, but he was cut off by a large dorsal fin rising up in front of him. Quite understandably he panicked and froze, but Therese was pulled under the water seconds later and that was the last time he saw her alive. She was savaged by a Great White and died instantly. Winifred remembers that her little cousin's remains were taken home to Denver and cremated not long after."

"So, nothing to salt and burn." Dean blew out a breath. "What happened to the shark?"

"Well, the authorities eventually hunted the beast down," the priest replied. "But it seems that Therese's parents were so overcome with grief and anger at their son for letting it happen," his expression darkened, "they never let him forget it."

Sam slumped back against his brother. "Poor kid. His parents were pretty unforgiving, huh?"

Jim nodded. "Stevie never recovered from it. Suffered a breakdown around five months later and took his own life." He added quietly, "He'd only just turned thirteen when he hung himself, found a couple of hours later by his mother. He was also cremated in Denver."

 _ **TBC…**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Sleeping Sickness and Things that Bite**

 **Chapter Five**

"So the parents lost both their children?" asked Sam, eyes wide and moist.

"Within six months of each other," Dean mused aloud. He clucked his tongue and glanced at Sam. "Could be the girl _or_ her brother."

"Actually…" Jim began.

Sam shook his head slightly. "Nothing to salt and burn remember? In any case, I definitely heard a girl's voice and saw her outside the kitchen window."

"But if there's no bones to salt and burn…" Dean was interrupted by a fierce yell from deeper inside the house, followed by a loud crash.

Jim held out a hand towards the brothers, stilling their movements.

"It's not the brother or the sister," he said, firmly. "I've not finished the whole story yet, so stay here. I'll check this out."

He stepped back out into the hallway. "John? You ok?"

There came a scuffling followed by a stumbling noise, then John called back:

"Frankly, I've been better!"

Jim winced when John's savage swearing turned the air blue, then the guy let out another yell, this time in pain. The priest slipped quietly away from the kitchen and headed towards the chaos.

All the brothers could do was listen in, and the conversation they heard went something like this…

"Sonofa _bitch!_ " John bellowed, his voice shaky and angry, making Sam and Dean jump.

 _Snapsnapsnap…_

"Just take it easy, John…"

"Take it easy _my ass…_ "

 _Snapsnapsnap…_

"John!"

"Sorry! Just… go keep an eye on the boys."

"They can keep an eye on each other. You need help with this one."

 _Snapsnapsnap…_

"I've handled worse," said John, petulantly.

"Not like this you haven't," Jim told him. "For a start, it ain't human."

 _Snapsnapsnap…_

"Tell me something I _don't_ know!" answered John.

Followed by _Snapsnapsnap snapsnapsnap_ crunch! "Ow! Fucker _bit_ me!"

Sam and Dean heard the Pastor huff in clear annoyance.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," he growled, "and your pig-headed sons…"

"Hey!" Dean called out, reproachfully.

"… for the past few minutes," Jim continued without missing a beat. "But no one wants to actually _listen to the whole story!"_

 _Snapsnapsnap…_ thud!

"Gotcha ya bastard!" John yelled, triumphantly. Then… "You were saying?"

They heard Jim sigh. "Follow me. And bring those… _things_ … with you."

Two sets of footsteps trod heavily back down the hall to the kitchen.

Jim and John appeared in the kitchen doorway, with something large clutched tightly between John's strong hands and Jim's arms. The object twitched, thrashed and bucked, trying to get away.

Sam's eyes widened.

Dean's jaw dropped open, which turned out to be rather ironic.

"Lemme guess…" Sam said, sounding dazed. "That's the shark, right? Those… those _teeth_ belonged to the shark that killed the girl?"

"Yes," said Jim, wearily. "Stevie and Therese's parents had them mounted on a wall plaque back home in Denver, but after the Colonel died they came back here for his funeral and brought the teeth along to be left here. I guess they couldn't bear to look at them, but equally couldn't bear to destroy them. Must still be traces of Therese' blood on it somewhere."

Dean carried on staring. " _Why?"_ he almost wailed."Why in God's name would anyone _want_ to _keep_ something like that?!"

John shrugged. "Grief will drive people to do some weird shit," he said, simply. The shark teeth bucked again and he tightened his hold on them, both arms wrapped around them like a vice.

"Over the years that followed the parents came to blame themselves for losing their children, and to regret blaming Stevie for their own failings," said the Pastor, sadly.

Dean snorted with distain. "Too little too late, huh?"

"Exactly," agreed Jim. "The teeth became less of a memorial and too much of a guilt trip, but the parents couldn't bring themselves to destroy them."

"Ya know, most _normal_ people just have a service" said Dean, getting uptight and angry all over again. "Or lay some flowers, a head stone… but shark teeth? From the very same shark? That's just crazy!"

Sam sighed, long and low. "Since when are _we_ ones to judge what's normal, Dean?"

Dean looked incredulous. "There's normal, and there's _normal_ , Sam!"

"I'm just saying…"

"Can we argue about this later?" John grimaced when the teeth thrashed again, nearly got free and caught his arm in the process. "Sonofa… Almost took off a limb that time!"

Jim held up a can of gasoline and some salt. "Shall we take this outside?"

John nodded and glanced over at his sons. "You guys stay here and take it easy. Jim and I'll take care of this."

The brothers watched as their father and the priest wrestled the shark teeth out of the kitchen door, and watched the door bang shut.

They sat there in silence, watching the salt and burn through the safety of the glass.

It was a bit of an anti-climax if Sam was honest. He half expected the little girl to show up and beg them to stop, but there was no sign of her. That was, until the fire flared up very briefly as the gasoline caught. The salt began to spark and burn, leaving behind the smoking, blackened ruins of the shark teeth. Sam felt a change in the air, a subtle lightening and a warm breath on his ear, then nothing. Perhaps it was a result of blood loss, pain and exhaustion but Sam figured it was her way of saying 'thanks and goodbye'.

Meanwhile, Dean was staring at something on the kitchen wall.

"Dean? You ok?"

Dean spun about and Sam wondered at the slightly spooked expression on his face.

"Yeah," his brother nodded and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I'm ok."

Sam studied him carefully. Dean looked pale, tired and worried. It seemed that Sam wasn't the only one in need of some down time. And there were a few things that needed to be said.

"Sit down before you fall down," Sam ordered him, managing to sound stern, despite his injuries.

To his surprised, Dean didn't argue, just trudged back over and dropped to his knees, head down, eyes on the floor.

"Some Christmas break, huh?" he muttered, the corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile that was tinged with sadness.

Sam nodded. "Yeah." He sighed. "Look Dean, you were… partly right about me."

Dean's head shot up and he stared at Sam with wide eyes. "Huh?"

This was gonna be a tough one, but Sam was determined to get through it.

"When you told me I was a snob," he raised the hand of his good arm to stall Dean's protests. "That I thought I was too good for the family business, for hunting…" he shrugged, despondently. "Part of that was true. But, I guess I didn't realise until you actually said it…"

This was proving harder than he first thought, and Sam wasn't sure he'd ever get his brother to understand his choices.

"I don't know, man," Sam continued on, doggedly. "It wasn't just that. Mainly, it was the thought of having to watch you and dad get hurt, or worse. And just the thought that my life was mapped out for me, without my consent, before I'd even got started… I _freaked out._ I realised I wasn't cut out to face a life of bloodshed and terror, drifting from one town to the next, only to die out in some abandoned shit hole or on a lonely stretch of road, with no one to mourn my passing, no one to even notice I'm gone. If I'm lucky, and I'm not the last Winchester standing, maybe I'll get a funeral pyre but that's it. That's all I had to look forward to, and I didn't even get a say in it!"

He was pale and sweating by the time he finished his sentence.

"So, yeah, you and dad? You were both right. I'm a snob and a coward."

Pain rocketed through his injured shoulder and he winced, sucking air through clenched teeth.

Dean blinked and looked contrite. "Sammy…"

"I guess I just wanted something more," Sam continued onwards, ignoring the pain and the exhaustion in favour of getting it all out. "A safe, normal life of my choosing. A family of my own, a home, someone to share that home with…"

His laugh was more of a half-sob.

"When I met Jess, I had most of that, and I hoped to have a family with her someday, but," his eyes filled with tears that he blinked back, wouldn't allow them to escape. When he spoke next, the words came with difficulty. "For obvious reasons… th-that's not gonna happen, now. I-I guess… it just wasn't meant to be. But it was there Dean, just within my reach."

Sam sniffed and gave in to a full on sob. "It was all there right in front of me, mine for the taking, and I let it… let _her_ slip away. I fucked up, Dean. I fucked it all up!"

"Sammy, she was _taken_ from you," Dean growled, grasping Sam's chin and forcing the kid to look at him. "There was nothing you could have done."

"I could have _warned_ her," Sam insisted, stubbornly. "I _should_ have _protected_ her!"

"You think she'd have believed you?" Dean asked, sharply.

"I… I don't know, but I should have at least tried." Sam sniffed again, and swiped at his eyes, smearing tears down his cheeks. "I should have tried."

Dean breathed in and exhaled slowly. He palmed Sam's face and forehead.

"You're burning up, kiddo," he said, softly. "We need to get you to a clinic or something."

"Don't change the subject!" Sam snapped.

"I'm not," said Dean. He sighed. "Look, I don't blame you for leaving, Sammy, ok? You were right about all those things, the drifting, the danger… and I'm sorry for what I said. I had no right to call you a snob, and Dad should _never_ have called you a coward."

He looked away for a moment. "You're one of the bravest kids I know, and you're entitled to your own life, to run it how you see fit."

Sam licked his lips and felt instantly ashamed of himself when he tasted his own salty tears. "I guess it's too late now, huh? I'm in whether I want it or not. I have to find Jessica's killer. I owe it to her just as Dad owes it to Mom, even if it ends up killing me."

Dean's jaw clenched and unclenched as he thought that through.

"It won't," he announced, with absolute certainty. "Not while I'm around."

He gently rubbed Sam's head. It was time to lighten things up a bit.

"So it's a shitty life on the road; always on the hunt, using credit card fraud and poker games to feed us. But hey!" he forced a smile and lightly slapped Sam's good arm. "You're not alone. You'll never be alone. You have your awesome big brother, and cool rock music to sing us to sleep at night."

Clearly the attempt at levity hadn't worked, because Sam just gazed up at him in utter misery.

Big brother inwardly sighed.

"Look, I can't promise how things are gonna turn out," said Dean, gently brushing a few sweaty strands of hair back from Sam's head. "But I can promise that I'll be there for as long as you need me. We don't have much; we don't have a house with a yard, a dog, or a normal life. But we have each other's backs."

His smile faded. "I'd give my life for you, Sammy. That's more than most people get."

The kid didn't reply but his face said it all. _Me too._

"But right now," said Dean, pulling himself together, "you're hurt and need more help than our first aid skills can give you."

Unknown to the brothers John Winchester was listening from behind the kitchen door, just out of sight. He didn't say a word, just quietly walked away.

Pastor Jim was busy burying the remains of the shark teeth when he heard an engine roar to life.

"John?" He looked up and started running just as John's big black truck fishtailed away from the house, wheels spinning up clouds of dust and sand, and disappeared from sight.

The priest skidded to a stop, cursing as strongly as he could without actually swearing.

"John, how could you?" he whispered, aghast, and glanced back at the house. No doubt, the boys had heard their father drive away but how was Jim going to explain it to them?

Easy. It wasn't _his_ job to explain anything in John's absence, and Jim wasn't going to carry on making excuses for the guy any longer.

"I know you move in mysterious ways," he muttered, glancing up at the sky as he stalked back towards the kitchen. "But do you think that _just this once_ you could make an exception? It's Christmas after all…"

He was met with the curiously blank expression of the older brother as he entered through the garden door, and Sam's head was turned away.

It seemed there was no need for explanations.

"He's gone," stated Dean, voice devoid of any emotion. He'd been checking Sam's bandages again, but his hands stilled their movements on Jim's entry and even Sam seemed to hold his breath.

Jim had no idea what to say. All he could do was shrug. "I'm sorry," he said, feeling lame and impotent.

Dean snorted but didn't reply to that.

"Alright, Sammy, let's get you up and…" he broke off and stared at the Pastor.

Flashing red lights lit up the kitchen and the evening sky beyond the windows, and the sound of several vehicles pulling up outside made Sam roll his head back towards the kitchen door.

At least one of those vehicles sounded all too familiar. Voices called out, and the tinny noise of radio transmissions rattled away in the background.

"He's in here," they heard John call, just before his truck door slammed shut. "Hurry. He's lost a lot of blood."

Several pairs of booted feet sped up and the voices grew louder.

Soon, the kitchen was suddenly full of too many people and Sam began to feel nervous. Pastor Jim and Dean were asked to step outside but Dean refused to leave, much to Sam's relief, and the brothers kept a tight grip on each other's hand.

Sam stayed conscious long enough to catch sight of his Dad's worried face peering at him over the tops of the EMTs as they descended on him, armed to the teeth with medical equipment and a gurney.

 _He came back…_

As though reading his mind, John winked at him.

The flashing lights, the endless questions of the EMTs, all faded into the background and his eyes slipped closed.

 _ **SSSSSSSS**_

"You took off," Jim glared at John.

John took a sip of his bitter coffee and suppressed a shudder. "To help the EMT crew find the house. You said it yourself; no one's lived there in years."

Jim's glare didn't let up. "You. Took. Off."

"I came back, didn't I?" John finally snapped, fed up with the accusing stare and the insinuations. He subsided when he glanced at the closed door to Sam's hospital room. "I always intended to."

After an even longer, harder stare at the man, Jim relented and nodded. "Ok, I believe you. But you understand why we have our doubts, right? When Dean was dying, you weren't exactly beating down the door to see him."

John sighed. "That was different."

"Was it? I fail to see how."

"Who do you think gave Joshua the info about Le Grange?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "The faith healer? Really? Didn't think you believed."

"I don't," John growled, throwing the priest a warning look. _Don't try that bible bashing shit on me._ "But Sam does. Figured he'd know what to do."

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. "You sent them on a hunt, John! While Dean was _sick!"_

"What would you have me do, Jim?" John got to his feet and loomed threateningly over the guy. "I knew Le Grange would cure Dean. Knew it and _felt_ it, but I also knew it was wrong and had to stop."

"That makes you a hypocrite!" Jim replied and also stood up, refusing to allow the younger man to intimidate him. Jim Murphy cowed down to no one but God.

John's eyes flashed with anger and despair. "Maybe it does at that. But tell me something Jim: do I look like a guy who cares?"

Jim studied him in that moment, and nodded slowly. "About what I think? No. About your sons? Oh yes. Most certainly. But you need to tell them that, John, before it's too late."

John hung his head, suddenly feeling the weight of the years on his shoulders. "I know," he murmured. "There's a lot I need to tell them".

"Then…" began Jim but Sam's door, that had only a few moments ago been the centre of such close scrutiny, swung open.

Dean stood in the entryway to his brother's room, leaning on the frame, arms folded.

The two older Winchesters stared at each other, and Jim watched the silent stand-off with something to akin to fascinated awe. He'd never seen John's oldest son like this before, strong, silently grim and determined to keep his little brother safe and secure, even from their own father.

John broke the silence first because Dean obviously wasn't going to.

"How is he?" he asked, just shy of humble but there was deep concern evident in his tone, on his face, in his body language.

That seemed to satisfy Dean, who nodded to himself and pushed away from the doorframe and allowed the door to click shut behind him.

"Kid's got a raging fever. Wound infection," he said, bluntly, absently fingering the bandage on his arm, the match to the one worn on John's.

Jim watched the boy's fingernails scratch lightly over the white material. Both Winchesters were a little paler than usual; the result of almost continuous blood donations after the Transfusion department ran dry of Sam's blood type.

Dean must have realised what he was doing because he snatched his hand away.

"Sammy's on IV antibiotics for now," he continued. "They gave him all the blood they could and it was just enough, but he's still gonna be groggy for a while. It'll be a week at least before they consider releasing him." His gazed settled on John. "And Dad?"

"Yes, Son?" John replied, tentatively.

Dean's eyes narrowed, green irises gleaming like sharpened flint in the hallway light.

"He's gonna _stay_ here until they release him, until they're happy he's ok." He straightened up, shoulders back, and issued forth the challenge. "Are we clear on that?"

"Now, you listen…" John growled, angrily.

"No, you listen!" Dean hissed right back. "He caught a six inch shard of wood and glass in his shoulder, and it caused a _serious_ fucking bleed when they tried to pull it free. Kid almost bled out on the table. I am _not_ gonna risk losing him!"

John froze, blinked, and then staggered back a step, colliding with the wall behind him.

"I… I had no idea it was so bad," he stammered, sinking down to a crouch. "I mean, sure it was bad enough but…"

Dean seemed to give in and he slumped a little. Dark shadows stood out under his eyes like sentinels of sleep deprivation.

"I know," he said, softly, and scrubbed a hand down his face, catching on two days' worth of growth. "Me too."

Just then Jim saw the resemblance between father and son stronger than ever before, emphasised by their worry over Sam.

"Look Dad," said Dean, suddenly sounding young, lost and scared. "Between me calling him a snob and you calling him a coward…"

But he didn't finish because John got there before him.

"Yeah, kid's had shit coming at him from all sides, none of it deserved," said his Dad, with a self-deprecating smile. He held out a hand. "He's gonna need us working together. Truce?"

"Truce." Dean grinned weakly and stepped forward to take it, but found himself pulled into a hug.

"Now we just have to convince Sam," said Dean, after he pulled away again.

"Good luck with that!" John grinned back, but it faded when he noticed the look of hesitation on Dean's face. "He'll forgive you, Dean."

"I know, he already has," replied Dean. He frowned suddenly. "But…"

John and Jim looked at each other.

"What?" asked John, his own brows dipping in sympathy,

Dean shook his head. "I think there was another reason that ghost latched onto him."

"Oh yeah?"

"I saw a photo on the kitchen wall," said Dean, sadly. "Looked like a Christmas photo of all the kids decorating their tree, laughing and joking. I don't think they even knew they were being snapped."

John was frowning now. "Go on."

"There was a girl and a boy right at the front," Dean paused and stared at his father. "The boy was a dead ringer for Sammy when he was about twelve. And I _mean_ dead ringer, Dad. Like, spooky, spitting image, right down to the floppy hair and puppy dog eyes. Scared the crap outta me. Sorta thing you only hear about in bad campfire stories."

The silence fell thick and heavy around them as John processed that information.

After a minute or two, he nodded slowly.

"I don't think Sam needs to know about this," he said, carefully, and squeezed Dean's shoulder affectionately. "He's got enough on his plate. So I won't tell if you don't, huh Dean?"

Dean looked relieved, like a huge burden had been lifted. "No, sir!"

"Jim?" John raised a quizzical brow.

Pastor Jim thinned his lips. "Right," he replied, his reluctance obvious. He wasn't a fan of keeping secrets like these but he had to respect this one. The Winchester's had a point. "Go on. Go see Sam. I'll just give you a minute with him."

John and Dean nodded to the priest as they cracked open the door.

Pastor Jim remained seated outside while the two men quietly entered Sam's room.

Well, darn it! he thought.

It might be the stuff of bad campfire tales, but such things were certainly not unheard of in the Pastor's extensive hunting experience.

Suicide was a terrible burden to place upon the soul. Some people even went as far as to believe it was an outright stain _,_ and Jim wondered about that. He'd heard the fledgling rumours about the special children, knew what was coming and what John Winchester was seeking.

And it wouldn'tbe long now; a few more months and those rumours would be sweeping through the hunting community like wildfire. So far John had managed to keep his boys clear of it all, but it was only a matter of time before they ran into someone who had doubts about Sam's so called destiny. Jim and Caleb had tried their best to keep a lid on it but some of the less sane hunters, the likes of Gordon Walker for example, already had their suspicions, and someone like him wouldn't give up, wouldn't stop asking questions… and once he found the answers the guy probably wouldn't keep his mouth shut for long.

And Gordon Walker was trouble with a capital 'T'. An excellent hunter and highly intelligent, sure, but only a stride away from becoming a legendary psycho.

Pastor Jim didn't for one minute believe that Sam had an evil bone in his body, but something out there was watching him, pushing and preparing him without his even knowing it. In fact, Jim suspected it had started long before the poor kid had even been conceived. According to the Colonel's daughter, young Stevie died exactly ten years to the day before Sam was born, and the priest couldn't help but wonder if there was something significant about that. Reincarnation wasn't something hunters spent much time pondering over, but hunters also didn't believe in coincidence and this one was just a little too big to swallow.

There were many sins a soul might fall foul of and suicide could, by some, be counted among them. If that had been the first step, the first _stain_ , what could come next?

Huffing a little in frustration, Jim rubbed the palms of his hands over his knees. He didn't have enough info to put the puzzle together right now, and an unpleasant tingling down his spine told him he probably never would.

He suddenly felt cold. Like someone had walked over his grave.

 _ **SSSSSSSSS**_

Sam felt uncomfortably warm under the hot sun and stared into the inviting blue depths of the ocean. He desperately wanted to dive in and let the cool waters cleanse away the dirt and sweat of the day, but his shoulder was hurting him too much. He vaguely remembered it was injured but couldn't understand the how or why of it.

The sun grew hotter and the water was almost singing to him, begging him to sink into all that wonderful coolness, but he was afraid of it. With an injured shoulder, swimming was out of the question and he didn't want to risk drowning. Maybe he could just paddle his feet, wade in up to his knees…

" _Sammy?"_

Dean was calling him. Sam looked up and shielded his eyes from the sun.

" _Time to wake up, kiddo,"_ his brother told him. Dean was standing in the tree-line, but all Sam could see of him was a tall silhouette.

" _Dean?"_ Sam stepped towards him, anxious to see his face properly but the silhouette seemed to shrink away from him the closer he got.

" _C'mon, Sammy, you need to wake up now,"_ the dark form moved back yet again, this time almost disappearing completely.

Sam began to panic and started running. _"Dean… don't go!_ Please _don't go!"_

" _Not going anywhere Sammy… not without you…"_

But the shadow of his brother slipped away from him, regardless…

 _ **TBC…**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Sleeping Sickness and Things that Bite**

 **Chapter Six**

Sam's eyes slammed wide open, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face. He tried to sit up but his shoulder screamed in agony, almost forcing him back under again.

The world seemed to swim around him, and he felt like he was burning up from the inside out.

"Easy, Sammy," someone said, in a soothing tone.

A cold damp cloth was draped over his forehead and Sam instantly began to feel calmer.

He blinked a few times to clear his fuzzy vision and sniffed.

"That's it… Good to see you back with us, kiddo."

Sam tilted his head back a little and stared up into the worried face of his brother.

Dean was sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning over Sam with his hands braced on either side of the pillows.

"Dean…" he whimpered pathetically. "Don't go…"

"Already told you, Sammy. I ain't goin' nowhere without you."

He was so damn _hot._ His blood felt like it was boiling and bubbling in his veins, raging like a furnace, and he felt sick and dizzy. The minutes ticked by, with his brother murmuring quiet reassurance and wiping the cloth down his face from time to time.

But the heat seemed to get worse rather than better, becoming more and more unbearable. Sam moaned softly, panting and stewing in his own sweat.

Dean obviously understood because he frowned and gently grasped Sam's neck.

"It'll get better. Just hold on."

Keeping that hand in place, he withdrew slightly and reached over to the nightstand.

Sam heard water splashing dully in a plastic tub, and then the cloth over his forehead was replaced. The cool albeit brief reprieve from the oppressive heat was more than welcome.

"Gotta get your temperature down," Dean muttered, bathing Sam's face with another wet cloth. "Gets much higher…" he paused, as if wondering whether to revise his statement, then said "and they'll have to keep you in here longer."

That's when Sam took a good look around the room, his burning eyeballs swivelling from side to side.

Now he knew what Dean had really been about to say. Sam was in a hospital room, and if his temperature got much higher then a whole realm of trouble lie ahead.

Sam had been pre-law but he knew enough about pyrexia to understand that multiple organ failure wasn't exactly something to look forward to.

Perhaps he should have been scared or worried at the very least, but Sam was much too tired for that. He drifted off again, his brother's voice following him down into the depths of sleep.

When he next woke up, he had no idea how long he'd been out but he was feeling a little better, which he could probably attribute to his brother. Dean was still hovering over him, perched on the bed and running a cold cloth over Sam's face.

"Hey there, Sammy," Dean whispered. "Awake again, I see."

Sam smiled to himself.

Even when they were kids, Dean was fiercely protective and insisted on taking care of his little brother when he was sick. When Dean was nine years old, John had to lock him in the bathroom just so he could treat Sam's badly sprained ankle without Dean getting in his way. When it was all finished, Sam's ankle wrapped and his tears dried off, John unlocked the bathroom door and let him out again, only for Dean to critically assess John's handy work on Sam's ankle and decide that the bandaging wasn't neat or tight enough. He then proceeded to rewrap the ankle with a fresh bandage. From then on, John let Dean attend all injuries regarding Sam and just watched on in the background…

"Dad's here," Dean murmured, suddenly.

Sam froze, and scanned the room once more.

"Not actually in the room," Dean rolled his eyes with a fond half-smile. "Outside in the waiting area, though he was in here earlier. 'Course, you were out of it at the time."

Sam licked his dry, chapped lips. "Thought he left," he croaked.

Dean automatically grabbed a cup from the nightstand. "Ice chips. Open up."

Sam obediently opened his mouth, and felt the chips tumble over his tongue. He crunched gratefully on the ice, swilling cool, melted water over his gums and down his throat.

"He's worried about you," said Dean, finally. "Believe it or not."

Sam sighed, eyes at half-mast. "Think I'm gonna go with _or not._ "

"Your call, dude," Dean shrugged, carelessly, but Sam could see the lie for what it was; his brother wanted to fix this. To fix John and Sam. "But he's here, if that's any clue, and he hasn't slept in the entire four days since you were brought in. None of us have."

"He's here for you, Dean," Sam rolled his head to the side. "I don't even exist to him. He doesn't want a coward in the family, remember?"

Dean looked up at the ceiling, heaved in a breath, and nodded. "Yeeeahhh, I remember. And he shouldn't have said that to you."

Sam snorted but didn't reply.

"He knows that," Dean persisted, keeping his tone casual. "And I know I shouldn't have said what _I_ said to you, either… ya know, back before the whole coma spell."

Sam's head rolled back and he gazed up at his brother.

"The 'snob' comment?" he asked, tiredly. "Dude, you were right…"

But Dean was shaking his head. "Sam…"

"Dean…" Sam began.

"I wasn't, ok?" Dean snapped, angrily. Then he took a deep, calming breath and carried on in a more reasonable tone. "What I'm _trying_ to say is that Dad and I both had a problem with you leaving for Stanford, and we lashed out because we didn't know what else to do, how to stop you. We lashed out at different times and in different ways, I'll grant you, but lash out we did and we had no right!"

Sam snorted again, though this time with genuine humour. "I did wonder if you guys were gonna lock me up somewhere until I changed my mind, or try kidnapping me from campus."

Dean looked away but not before Sam caught the semi-guilty look on his face.

Sam's eyes widened. "You _were_ gonna try it!" he exclaimed, shocked.

"Noooo!" Dean laughed at that, a fake joviality that didn't quite ring true. "As if, Sammy."

Sam didn't have to say anything, just the look on his face combined with a raised eyebrow was enough for Dean to back down and burst into laughter, this time with full on genuine mirth.

"Ok, it crossed our minds a bit," he admitted, still laughing.

Sam shook his head a little, grinning from ear to ear in spite of his pain and discomfort. "I can't believe we're even related! Now c'mon, tell me how you were gonna do it…"

Dean scratched the back of his head, self-consciously, and launched into a brief rundown of Sam's aborted kidnapping from school.

"Oh my God," said Sam, and blew his fringe up off his sweaty forehead. "I can just picture it. S'like a scene straight out of Sunset Beach!"

The two of them chuckled at the image of Dean and John hiding in a bush outside the main lecture hall, wearing ski masks and armed with a sack and a chloroform soaked cloth.

"Only thing missing was the panel van," said Dean, smirking.

"And you actually sat down and _planned_ this?"

"Yep," said Dean, sounding almost proud, like a kid showing off his high school science project. "Even drew a diagram and everything."

The younger brother shook his head in amusement, face still glistening from his uncomfortable fever.

"So it only _crossed_ your mind, huh?" asked Sam, wryly, settling back against his pillows and somehow feeling a little better. Which was weird. Most people would freak at the idea of being kidnapped, by family or not. Perhaps it was a measure of Sam's own strange psyche that he found it comforting his family cared… _loved_ him enough to even consider it. "What stopped you? Ran out of gas? Couldn't get the chloroform?"

Dean sobered a little, but he was still smiling. "Rational thinking came to your rescue and informed us that you'd only hate us both all the more."

Just like that, the smile was gone from Sam's face. Wet, puppy dog eyes peered up at his older brother.

"I never hated you, Dean," he whispered, and closed his eyes in relief when the cold cloth over his forehead was replaced again.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Really? Not even a little bit?"

Cool water droplets rolled down Sam's face and dripped off his chin.

"Not even a _tiny_ bit."

"What about Dad?" Dean asked, quietly, wiping up the stray drops.

Sam opened his eyes again. "That's a different question. Yeah, I hated him sometimes when we were growing up, but now? I guess I'm not sure. Now I think I get where he was coming from."

"Because of what happened to Jess?"

Sam nodded and yawned. "I get why he's so hell bent on revenge. Or maybe its justice he's after…"

A quiet knock on the door made both brothers look up. It cracked open about an inch and someone peered through the gap.

"Can I come in?" John enquired, softly.

Dean looked at Sam enquiringly, who swallowed hard and nodded.

Their Dad crept into the room; a large brown paper bag tucked under one arm, and closed the door quietly behind him. He stood at the end of Sam's bed and picked up his son's chart, flipping a few pages over and running his eyes over the doctor's spider-like scrawl.

Sam tried not resent John's take-charge attitude but it was a hard habit to break. Already he could feel his mouth curling into a snarl, and felt the rising bitter argument that was bound to explode the very second 'getting the hell out of here' was mentioned.

Dad looked up from the chart and smiled gently, eyes twinkling with love, kindness and concern.

"The antibiotics are working nicely, but your temperature's still too high, son," he replaced the chart and moved closer to Sam's end of the bed. "You're gonna be here a while longer, so I… I got you these to help pass the time."

He held out the bag, but Sam just stared at it in disbelief.

"Aren't you mad?" he blurted out, suddenly, unable to look his father in the eye.

John looked taken aback. "Why would I be mad?"

Sam shrugged and grimaced in pain. "'Cos I let you down," he replied, voice uncharacteristically small where his father was concerned. "Again."

A gentle hand on his chin raised his head back up.

"How, exactly, have you let me down?" John smiled at the confusion on his son's face. "You have _never_ let me down, Sammy. Not really."

Sam was speechless, which had to be a first. Under normal circumstances, Sam would have argued just for the sake of it. That was the effect John had on most people but especially his youngest son. Dean smiled to himself and remained quiet, just carried on bathing Sam's face and neck.

"We're always gonna be at logger heads, Sam," said John with a sigh. "We're just too damned alike. But I'm proud of you. You made it into Stanford on a full ride; what parent wouldn't be proud of their kid for that? But…" and it was at this point he raised his chin, defiantly. "I'm always gonna feel that your place is with us, and though I apologise for wrongfully calling you a coward, I ain't gonna apologise for _that_."

The two men stared, John down at Sam as if seeking approval, Sam at the door as if seeking an escape from the awkward moment; but both men held equally mutinous expressions on their faces.

Dean glanced at each of them and inwardly sighed. It was a truce of sorts, but this wasn't the end of it. No doubt the two of them would lock horns again in the future, just as his father predicted, and God knows what the fall out would be. In fact, the longer the silence went on, the more tense it became, and Dean felt sure there was gonna be another blow out very, very soon…

But Sam broke the tension by speaking first. "Thanks Dad, for the apology I mean."

"Thank _you_ ," John replied, and gently cupped Sam's jaw again, "for hearing me out, son."

Sam still avoided eye contact, nodded and opened the bag. After a good rummage around he pulled out a couple of candy bars, a book of crossword puzzles, and a paperback copy of The Sundowners.

Sam gaped in disbelief. "Wow! Where did you get this?!"

It was the story of a nomadic family in the Australian outback, cattle drovers who pitched their tents in a new place each time the sun went down. But Ida and Sean, the mother and son protagonists of the tale, wanted to settle down in one place while Paddy, the father, could never stay in one place for long and continued to obey his inner wanderlust to the dismay of his family, dragging them both around the country from job to job.

Sam felt he could relate to it; the son and mother's desire for stability, in the form of a permanent hearth and home, resonated with him so strongly that it became one of Sam's favourite films when he was a kid. The first time he'd watched it he and Dean had been off school with a stomach bug and Sam had later gone on to read the book the movie was based on. He'd fallen hopelessly and helplessly in love with the story. But as time went on, and life grew more complicated, the book slipped by the wayside, probably lost to one of the many faceless motels they'd called home over the years, and he'd eventually forgotten all about it until he went to Stanford.

That Dad had remembered was touching to say the least, and meant more to him than he could say.

He looked up at his father with a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Dad."

John flushed a little with embarrassment.

"It was nothing, kid. Found it in a second hand bookshop a few months ago and thought of you." He shuffled from foot to foot, uncharacteristically nervous. "I was gonna save it for your birthday but I wasn't sure…"

He trailed off, looked away and cleared his throat. "Wasn't sure you'd want it," he finished.

 _Coming from me,_ was left hanging unspoken between them but, for once, Sam didn't press the issue and let it go.

"It's great Dad," he said, softly, and ran his hands lovingly over the cracked and worn surfaces of the book. "Really great. In the first year of college I searched for a copy of this, but then I met Jess…" he chewed on his bottom lip, then quickly changed tact. "I just never found it. This is… just…" he blinked a couple of times and glanced up at John again, properly meeting his gaze square on for the first time since he entered the room. "I love it."

A sopping wet cloth landed on his face with a loud _splat_.

"What the…?" Sam spluttered, and brushed the cloth aside to glare up at his grinning brother.

"What the hell was _that_ for?!" he groused, spitting water out of his mouth.

Dean readied the other dripping wet cloth, arm and shoulder back, taking aim.

"Just trying to lighten things up a bit, Sammy," he said. "Getting a little too chick flicky in here and you still need to cool down."

Before he could let fly his missile, his arm was caught in a vice like grip and the cloth removed from his grasp. Surprised, Dean turned to come nose to nose with his father, who was grinning smugly and weighing up the wet cloth in his hand. He hadn't seen or even heard the guy move, and there was the unnerving glint in his eye that put Dean in mind of an amused predator.

"Wha…? Dad, you wouldn't," he tried to back away, hands raised up in defence, but Sam's bed blocked his escape.

"Like you said," John drawled, and cocked his head slightly to one side in order to wink at Sam. "Things need to lighten up round here."

Dean's eyes widened and his mouth opened. But before he could lodge a final appeal…

 _Splosh,_ as the cloth hit the water bowl, followed by _Splat_ as a split second later it hit Dean square in the face _._ Water went everywhere, since John had given it a damn good soaking but hadn't taken the time to wring it out.

Dean coughed and spluttered as water flooded his nose and swamped his mouth.

"Plah! Plur! C'hurrrr!... _sonofabitch!_ "

"Language, Dean," said John, mildly.

Sam shook his head, laughing softly. "Cool it you two," he said. After some consideration, he added: "No pun intended."

Dean stood there in shock, glaring at John, water dripping comically from his hair, eyebrows and nose.

John just shrugged. "What?" he said, with feigned innocence.

Dean drew himself up, screwed the cloth back into a sodden, wet ball, and slowly raised an eyebrow. "Oh, it is so _on,_ old man!"

John set his feet shoulder width apart, one foot in front of the other, and knees slightly bent. He raised a hand and beckoned with his fingers, Matrix style. "Bring it, _diaper-rash_."

"Uh, guys?" Sam's tired eyes swivelled between the two combatants. "Not sure that's such a good idea."

He gestured around the room, indicating the array of expensive and complicated medical equipment.

"No amount of health insurance, fake or otherwise, is gonna cover any of this stuff if it gets damaged."

Dean fixed his father with a narrowed-eye stared. "You'll keep," he growled after a pause.

John just shrugged his shoulders, completely unconcerned. "I'm sure I will."

"You're going _down,_ " retorted Dean, determined to have the last word.

"Your trash talk needs work, kid," replied John, folding his arms and leaning against the wall by Sam's bed. "I've heard it all before."

Dean scowled, goodnaturedly. "You've sure been _around_ long enough."

John's grin widened. "Long enough to come up with something more original."

"Oh, so it's _original_ material you're looking for, huh?" Dean's feathers were well and truly ruffled by now. "Well, you might wanna send that library book back, ya know the one I mean? 'Trash Talk for Dummies'?"

John opened his mouth immediately, smart quip at the ready…

"Oh _Jeez_!" Sam's head thumped back against his pillows and rolled to one side. "Will you two just pipe down? Sick people tryin' to sleep here!"

The two men immediately looked _almost_ contrite.

"Sorry Sammy," said Dean, apologetically.

"Yeah," said John, only half ashamed of himself. "Me too, kiddo."

Both men stood there like chastised children, shuffling their feet, heads down and staring at the floor.

But Sam wasn't fooled for a second and he wasn't in the least bit surprised when Dean started up again a second later.

"But HE started it!" Despite the scowl he threw John's way, there was a distinct twinkle in his eyes to match his father's.

"It was _you_!" John replied in an instant, fighting a grin.

"You threw the cloth at me first!"

" _You_ threw it at _Sam_ first!"

"Gimme strength," Sam grumbled, half amused, half irritated. He eyed his family, brows formed into a deep 'V'. "Who's the adult round here, huh? Please, _do_ remind me."

Sam sounded so much like a prissy school teacher that John chuckled loudly.

Dean just shrugged, grinned and ruffled Sam's hair. "Adult stuff is for grownups. You know me Sammy…"

"Yeah, I do," Sam replied, dryly. "Chronological age 26, physical age 66, mental age 6."

"Hey!" Dean protested with a childish pout. "I do _not_ have a physical age of 66!"

That he hadn't protested the mental age analysis didn't go unnoticed. Sam and John grinned at each other. Dean's priorities were somewhat… _skewed,_ to put it generously.

"Ok," Sam nodded, losing the grin and straightening his features into something more studious and intellectual. "Let's say… _76?_ "

John snorted, but Dean glared at his brother.

"Screw you, Sammy, I'm in my prime," he insisted, with what he probably thought was a proud manly stare from the lofty heights of his ego but which was, in fact, just a big, girly pout. "Firm muscles, a body like a gymnast, and an ass you could bounce a nickel off."

"You eat crap, Dean," said Sam, bluntly, but amused that his brother still hadn't argued with his proclaimed mental age. "If you ain't got a physical age of 66 yet, then it won't be long."

"In fact, it's only a matter of time," John piped up, ever keen to state the obvious.

"Daaaad!" Dean whined out, but that was as far as he got because Pastor Jim poked his head round the door, putting an end to the debate.

"How you feeling Sam?" he asked, kindly.

Sam smiled, tiredly. "Better than I was," he glanced at his family with a sly grin. "Until these jokers showed up, of course."

Jim laughed softly and crept into the room, closing the door behind him.

"I had a call from Bobby Singer," the priest got straight to the point. "He sends his regards, by the way."

Dean arched an eyebrow at that. "Really?"

"Well, when I called and told him what happened, what he actually said was 'Damned idgits!'. Plain and simple." Then Jim smiled, suddenly. "He also offered his cabin up at Whitefish if you needed a place to stay over Christmas."

The Winchesters cast doubtful looks at each other. Christmas wasn't far off, barely a week away and Sam was nowhere near well enough to travel. Sam noticed John's frown and completely misinterpreted its meaning.

"Uh," said Sam, clearing his throat. "You guys should go on ahead. I'll catch you up when they let me loose from here."

Dean immediately vetoed that idea. "Forget it. Ain't gonna happen."

Sam hung his head and absently started picking at his blankets. "It's ok," he said, in a small voice. "You could get some food, chop wood for the fire…"

John started shaking his head. "Nope. We stay here 'til you're ready. 'Sides, you're needed to direct the tree decoration. We should do all that stuff together." He smiled sadly when Sam shot him a look of astonishment. "As a family."

Sam swallowed a rising lump in his throat. "But…" he began, hoarsely. "I won't be much use."

"And you think we're any better?" Dean scoffed. "Sammy, you've seen my decorating skills, right?"

Sam blinked, and a memory of a long ago Christmas made him think again. When he was around six years old, Dean around ten, their father had abandoned them for a few days while pursuing a hunt. Dean had tried to cheer up his woebegone little brother with his own version of Christmas. The tree had been an almost bare skeleton of branches, and the decorations had been little more than tin cans he'd salvaged from the trash. It was cheap and scruffy and definitely wouldn't have qualified for any awards, but Sam had still loved it because it was _Dean_ who had made Christmas possible.

Sam smiled distantly. "Huh." He looked fondly at Dean. "They're not so bad."


	7. Chapter 7

**Sleeping Sickness and Things that Bite**

 **Epilogue**

"A little to the left… no left…" Sam sighed and resisted the urge to scratch at his bandaged shoulder. "I said _left_ Dean! I swear you're doing this on purpose!"

Dean huffed. "Not my fault you don't know left from right."

The door to the cabin swept open and a flurry of snow drifted in.

"Boys stop arguing! Dean quit annoying your brother!" John shook the snow from his head and backed inside, dragging a small but bushy Norwegian Spruce with him.

Pastor Jim looked up from the stove where he was busy stirring a meaty looking stew. "Need a hand with the trifid there, John?" he drawled.

John scowled. "Nope!" he replied, stubbornly. "I got this."

Jim rolled his eyes and turned back to the chilli. It was Bobby's recipe, a kind of peace offering for not being there for Christmas. He claimed he was busy on a hunt down in St Louis, but Jim suspected it was more to do with John Winchester than anything else. The two men hadn't spoken to each other since a major falling out some years ago, and no one knew what kicked it off. All Jim knew was that if John ever showed his face around Bobby Singer's yard again, he'd better be wearing bullet proof pants.

So, to make up for his absence, Bobby had given Jim his precious and coveted chilli recipe. It was famous for its intense heat, ability to curl wall paper, and to leave the kind of scorch marks in the toilet basin that would more likely be observed on the deck of an aircraft carrier. Jim looked up and grinned to himself. Already the ceiling was turning brown. That was a sign the stuff was almost ready.

He had fixed a beef lasagne for himself and Sam based on the notion that food which could be used as a substitute for paint stripper probably wasn't a wise choice for someone fresh out of intensive care, but John and Dean… now _there_ was a prank just begging to happen.

Jim smothered a snort. Even though it was Sam's idea, the priest had to admit he was probably going to hell for this. But it was going to be more than worth it just to see the looks on their faces.

Those two wouldn't know what hit them.

Sam was slowly but surely grating some cheddar and parmesan, using his bad arm to hold the grater steady, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration. The bowl was soon full of cheese, piling up like the foothills of the Himalayas, complete with small cheesy avalanches that tumbled over the edge of the bowl.

Sam relaxed his grip and sat back with a sigh. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and his wounded shoulder ached from the effort of keeping the grater in place.

"That enough?" he asked.

Dean eyed the small mountain of cheese. "Enough to keep a whole family of mice happy for a while." He gently patted Sam's good shoulder and handed him a cold beer from the fridge. "That's it for today, Sammy. Take it easy and get some rest."

Sam's mouth twisted in annoyance. "It's Christmas Eve, and there's still the tree to decorate…"

"Which you can supervise from the comfort of the sofa," said John, firmly.

Dean nodded. "Yep, you just tell us where to stick stuff…"

"Don't tempt me," Sam muttered, mutinously.

"…and we'll do the rest," Dean finished without missing a beat, then grinned and took a swig of his beer.

Too tired to argue any longer, Sam gave in and did as he was told, while his father and brother struggled with the tree. Pastor Jim set the table and buttered bread, and outside the window the gentle snow fall picked up. Pretty soon the window panes were smothered, but through the occasional gaps caused by the heat of the cabin, Sam could see that the wintry sky was thick with snowflakes dancing on the wind. A blizzard was setting in, closing off the roads and mountain passes, sealing Jim Murphy and the Winchesters inside their Christmas retreat.

Sam smiled to himself. Good job they had enough food and drink to last for at least a month. This was largely thanks to a last minute Christmas shopping trip made by Dad and Pastor Jim, after Dean had complained about the slowly dwindling supply of beer and whisky. Which he claimed no responsibility for.

The log fire crackled, throwing out leaping shadows and making the Christmas decorations sparkle charmingly in the light. The otherwise drab and dreary cabin was filled with a warm, inviting, cosy glow.

Watching his family argue good naturedly over the tree with the scent of good, home cooking wafting up his nose, Sam smiled.

He could almost believe there was nothing to worry about, nothing to be scared of.

He could almost believe that the world was a place of light, love and beauty, and that true evil was nothing more than a myth or child's nightmare.

"Come and get it!" Jim announced, with barely disguised glee.

Sam watched his father and brother dig into their bowls of chilli and cheese. They stuffed their mouths until their cheeks were bulging, teeth chewing and gnashing at the ground beef, nodded and grinning, and making the most obscene moaning noises of pleasure.

Sam and Jim watched as the chewing slowed gradually, and a strange look came over Dean.

"Uh… this is a little… uh…" he said, weakly, and looked down at his bowl.

John stopped chewing altogether and his eyes widened with shock.

The serenity of the wintry night was interrupted by the sound of the cabin door slamming open, followed by what might have been two wild animals howling in pain. Rabbits scurried away in fear, and a young stag, out courting a young doe, was frightened off his stroke. The poor thing was _never_ living the embarrassment down.

Sam nodded and grinned at Pastor Jim when dad and Dean stumbled back in from the cold, snowmelt dripping from their dangling, red tongues. The twin expressions of bewildered indignation on their faces would be a memory to keep Sam laughing all through winter.

For tonight he would let himself believe.

Tomorrow was another story.


End file.
